Bits

-Was woken up at 3am by the sound of what I at first assumed to be an assault rifle mowing down those unlucky enough to be wandering around my neighborhood in the wee, small hours of the morning. Turns out... firecrackers. Like, a whole string of them, lit and (I assume) tossed out of a car by a group of kids who were up to no good. Also, one could conjecture that they were getting up to some monkeyshines, as well as shenanigans, tomfoolery, and... given the kids I've seen hanging around my neck of the woods... quite possibly 1st-degree murder. The fact that my block got only an impertinent firecrackin' could be viewed as a blessing. At least we weren't psycho-killed and/or chainsaw-massacred. Still, though, I'm very sleepy.

-The word "monkeyshines" is apparently acceptable to Blogger's spellcheck function, however "Barack Obama" is not. Just sayin'.

-Forgot to pack a lunch this morning (see: sleepy), so I ended up getting a footlong tuna sandwich from Subway. Inside (the store, not the sandwich), there was a female employee... a manager, I guess... screaming at the employees to "pick up the pace" and "move faster, dammit." It was the most shrill Subway experience I've ever had, though I must say that her tongue-lashings proved effective as my tuna sub was magnificent. So vinegary... so tuna-y... so full of a wage-slave's loathing for tyrannical management types...

-Realized about halfway through the day that, um, I kinda smell bad. I overslept this morning so I didn't have time to take a shower, and I think I also forgot to put on deodorant, and all of this is coming after a night of drinking tequila and running hither and yon across two boroughs and capping off the night on a subway car that had already discontinued it's A/C duties for the winter. So... smelly kid in class? C-dog, all the way. Sorry about that, any of you that happen to brush up against me in my cubicle or out on the street or, later on, at home. Parenthetically, how'd you get in my apartment!!! PUT DOWN THOSE FIRECRACKERS!!!

-Couple of nights ago, there was a raccoon on our fire escape. A RACCOON! In the middle of South Brooklyn! I don't even know how to respond to that, other than letting you know that my new Davy Crockett hat looks sharp as a motherfucker and, also, I have some delicious homemade jerky if anyone would like to try some. It's "beef." (not beef)

-Guess that's sort of me for right now. Feeling generally unmotivated to do much of anything. Actually, that's not true... I'm going to knuckle down and finish this bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips to the best of my ability. If that doesn't make me Employee of the Month, then I don't really understand the concept of the whole Employee of the Month thing, I guess. But c'mon it HAS to be about who can eat the most chips in one sitting, right? Because that's the only thing that makes sense. In my brain, anyway. Which, granted, is currently swimming in a lake of $3 margaritas, sleep deprivation, and the resounding, concussive booms a late-night firecracker fun-abration. So maybe I'm not the best judge.

Best. Sandwich. Ever.

NOTE: I had originally intended for this post to be an in-depth analysis of Friday's Presidential debates, including a breakdown of the candidate's overall performances, a focused look at their individual talking points, and then I had planned on wrapping the whole thing up with a piercing critique of their suits and haircuts. However, after preparing myself a steaming mug of coffee (broken jelly jar of beer) and settling in to write my commentary, I realized something very important: I don't know ANYTHING about any of that stuff. Also, I hadn't technically watched the debates (Ninja Warrior was on G4 and I can't resist any show that features people being flung from rolling logs into brackish water AND shouting Japanese men). So, instead of my insightful contextualizing of the political landscape, I'm just going to tell you about a really great sandwich I had this weekend. I think that's for the best.

Mexican delis make sandwiches so bonkers delicious, they could pull people back from the brink of suicide or solve all the world's problems by showing up at the UN and saying, "Eat me... and be healed." They're called "tortas," which is a word that I believe translates into English as "your mouth will be destroyed by my awesomeness, you lucky bastard; get ready for it... brace yourself... TASTY, ALL UP IN YOUR FACE!!!" Or something, I don't really speak Spanish. But, yeah, let me tell you what went into this motherfucker, and then into my mouth, and then into my belly where it made my guts happy to be alive like a crackhead that found religion in prison.

The Sandwich of Glory and Light: An Ingredient-by-Ingredient Examination

-The meat was pounded-out cube steak, seasoned, breaded, and fried, sort of like a chicken-fried steak but without the cream gravy. Can you imagine?!?! That, on a sandwich, and with all the other crap I haven't even told you about yet. It was like winning a raffle where first prize was having your mind blown clean out of your skull.

-The sandwich had refried beans on it. What? Exactly. REFRIED BEANS. Smeared on like whoa, casual-like, as if they do this sort of thing all the time on Planet Earth. Mars, maybe, or out in the moons that circle Jupiter, but here that's some next-level, Nobel Prize-worthy work in the field of condiment application.

-Then there was homemade guacamole. That's like a girl wearing high heels to bed; how are you supposed to compete with that? At that point, the sandwich could have taken my wallet and I would have been like, "hey that's cool can I have another bite of you before you run off with my credit cards, you beautiful sandwich god you're amazing... (drool)..."

-Lettuce & tomato... okay, lettuce & tomato aren't all that exciting. Still, though, they were very fresh and roughly chopped and there weren't so many that they overwhelmed the sandwich or anything. Just enough.

-Onions, fried in what tasted like adobo-spiked butter. Sweet weeping Jesus, I'm only a man. I'm weak. You're killing me over here.

-Sour cream and some sort of Mexican cheese, because this sandwich wasn't fatty enough with the thick, fried meats and all the butter and grease that comes along with that. There needs to be two additional sources of creamy fats to blast it into the stratosphere where the heart attack angels live and dance and play.

-Pickled jalapenos and homemade salsa topped the whole thing off like a crown forged from the depths of hell. So spicy, but full of flavor that could sever your head if you don't keep an eye on it.

-And all this came together on a toasted hoagie roll the size of a fire extinguisher. For $5... five American dollars for the greatest thing since liquor to pass these lips in 28 years. The deal of the century? Fuck your century... the deal of the millennium. Possibly the deal of the epoch. I now have to eat as many of these as I can because I'm convinced that the little Mexican deli is going to go out of business or get struck by a tornado made of lightning and the Ebola virus because the laws of nature dictate that something that beautiful and giving, so full of love and life, can't last forever. It has to be taken down by the jealous, the wicked, the cruel.

So... yeah... that's pretty much my plan for the next few months. Eat all these sandwiches until my circulatory system is just a log-jam of fatty deposits swimming in blood that tastes like beans. It's going to be the best few months EVER!!!

I Am The Sexiest Man Alive

I don't like to brag about myself, but... damn, dudes... some times a man just HAS to blow his own horn like a radioactive Louis Armstrong back from the dead to destroy us all with his terrifying Trumpet of Doom (patent pending). See, last night, I was the sexiest motherfucker on the planet. THE PLANET... including Spain, that's got all those Antonio Banderas types that wear their shirts unbuttoned to the navel and always smell like a mixture of exotic cologne, rich paella, and swampy balls. Why ladies find this sort of greasy, self-obsessed mama's boy so attractive, I'll never know. Probably has something to do with their "washboard abs," whatever those are (I think they're a myth, like the kid who died from Pepsi and Pop Rocks).

Anyway, we're not talking about those Latin Losers. We're talking about me, C-dog, and how last night I climbed to the highest heights of Sexy Mountain and stood there like a shining, Bat-signal of lust (it projects an image that looks like my dong) until I eventually got sleepy and had to go to bed. So now, let me break down my sexy, sexy, sexiness for you. Ladies, you might want to chain yourselves to your desk so you don't sprint out of your offices and into the streets, wild with carnality, trying to track me down for a right proper savaging. Gents... sorry, but after you read this, you're going to be crying all over your penises. I'm not trying to blow up your spot or anything... I've just gotta STRUT. Okay, no more stalling, here come the sexy:

-I've got this really bad cold or sinus infection or something and it's making me leak snot like a bag full of snot that's got holes in it. It's also severely affecting my metaphor skills, but that's neither here nor there. I'm all mucous-y and horking up weird globs of stuff from the depths of space and when I breath it sounds like a scuba diver swimming through an ocean of pudding. Horrible, horrible pudding.

-Because of said illness, I took a bunch of cold medicines. Like, a BUNCH. I felt so bad, it just kind of seemed like a good idea to take one dose of everything we had in the cabinet, including some ancient Pepto-Bismal tablets, a few decorative soaps, and an entire tube of Neosporin that I spread on crackers like Easy Cheeze. But the point is, by 8pm, I was completely loopy from the side effects and was stumbling around, slurring my words like Bowery bum, drooling down the front of my stained t-shirt, and mistaking my office for the bathroom. Repeatedly. Such a mess...

-Compounding the loopiness, I decided that it would be a really good idea to drink a lot of beer and whiskey, because I'm pretty sure doctors tell you it's ALWAYS smart to wash down any powerful medicines you might be taking with a good, stiff drink. It balances you out, or, rather, it disconnects you from reality and you'll find yourself out in the hallway doing the best one-man version of A Chorus Line your apartment building (or the cops they eventually call) has ever seen.

-At some point, I pulled it together enough to wander down to the Chinese place and order up a bunch of greasy fried chicken and french fries, all swimming in hot sauce. As my motor skills were... oh, let's say, "fucked up beyond all rational comprehension," I ended up mostly just smearing grease and Red Devil all over my face, neck, upper torso, hair, and the cat. I *did* eat all the chicken and fries, of course, but only after dropping it all on the floor a few times and, finally giving up with the fork (because I stabbed myself in the throat), just diving in there and scarfing at it like a rottweiler on a toddler. It was delicious and worth the eventual bloat.

Look, for real, I'm not telling you all of this to make you jealous (guys) or horny (ladies... and guys too, I ain't picky). I just want you to know... and I mean really KNOW... just how motherfucking sexy your boy C-dog truly is. Because one day you might find yourself alone with me and the flu and some Sudafed and a bottle of Old Grand Dad and a bucket of KFC and you really should know what you're getting yourself into. I don't want anyone to get hurt. BY MY SEXINESS!!!

Arbitrary Rulings 19 (Sickness Edition)

Stuffy Nose - This might be the worst thing in the known universe outside of being waterboarded by terrorists or having to sit in the front row of a Dane Cook concert. It feels like you're being suffocated by a Mafia hitman, but one who uses snot as his weapon and only attacks at three o'clock in the morning so you don't get any sleep and you're forced to wander through your day like a zombie that's actually BEGGING for someone to shoot them in the head. At least then you'd get some shut eye. I'm currently living in this awful, awful state of being... which means Fall is here, incidentally... and if the French Revolution were to suddenly show up at my office with their powdered wigs and Queens telling peasants to eat cake or whatever, I'd totally let them guillotine my mucous-y noggin into oblivion. If, you know, they happened to have a guillotine handy and weren't busy drinking wine until they started singing the songs of angry men, which as you might know, is the music of the people who will not be slaves again. Obviously. (I apologize, as always, for any and all musical theater references)

Barfing - Awful, if you've got the flu or something and haven't even done anything fun to warrant the violent expulsion of everything you've eaten since your senior year of high school. When you're drunk and just want the room to stop spinning, barfing can be a deeply satisfying experience on par with diarrhea-ing out a Mexican combo platter after a tense, butt-clenched subway ride home. But when the puking is entirely illness-based, it's totally and completely lame. You feel like your body is being turned inside out by an Egyptian curse because you came into possession of an ancient diamond found deep in a mine in Cairo (in this analogy, the diamond represents viral infections) and that's just all kinds of no fun. Plus, it gives you way rank breath that only ten or twelve scrubbings with a tube of Crest can truly eradicate.

Sympathy - Arguably the best thing about being sick. People fawning all over you and bringing you soups and magazines to read and refills of orange juice (or, if you're me, whiskey)... a person could get used to the waited-on lifestyle pretty damn quick. So you try to stretch it out... whenever your nursemaid comes in the room, you have a coughing fit or try to sit up but fall over in a clammy heap or you pretend the disease has made you go blind. Whatever it takes to keep the gravy train rolling. You'll get busted in the end, of course; they'll walk in while you're up dancing around, singing along to VH1's Totally 80s video marathon using a bottle of Robitussin as a microphone, or something to that effect, but man... what a ride, huh? What a ride.

Doctor's Visit - Such a hassle. The waiting rooms and the surly employee attitudes and the cold, cold hands of a medical professional on your nutsack as you turn, cough, and die a little inside... who needs it? Sure they have "medicine" that could make you "feel better," but is that REALLY worth getting out of bed? No, of course not. You'll be fine, for sure, if you just keep doing what your doing; ie taking lots of Tylenol and drinking Ocean Spray straight from the bottle while smearing Vick's Vap-O-Rub all over your chest like the least sexy stripper that ever existed. What could possibly go wrong? And, parenthetically, why has your neck begun to resemble a tractor tire, both in size and color? Eh, it's probably nothing. More Ocean Spray!!!

Dying - The inevitable conclusion to getting sick, although it's an end that's more often than not avoided thanks to the body's natural ability to fight off disease and/or the advances of modern pharmaceuticals. Of course it's a lot more likely if you, say, don't go visit the doctor (who said that?) or are one of those crazy Christian Science weirdos that think Jesus will come down from Heaven with a syringe full of love and make it all better with that and some prayer that makes flowers grow. Seriously, what is WRONG with those people... Jesus ain't no doctor. I watched ER and he never made even ONE cameo appearance. Which I think proves my theory that there is no God. What? No, it totally does. Don't argue with me. Did I mention I'm sick?

Let's Talk About The World's Largest Burger

If you happen to find yourself in Clearfield, PA, and you suddenly have the urge to eat so much meat that you die, you should really haul your fat self over to Denny’s Beer Barrel Pub, where they will make you a burger larger than a sheep and serve it to you on a rolling metal tray from an abandoned hospital that all the locals say is haunted. There's also a smaller version of the gigantic burger , but it is for little girls who dress up like princesses and drink fruit punch from Barbie tea sets in their bright pink bedrooms before watching High School Musical 2 and thinking Zac Efron is "rilly, rilly dreamy." And you're not a little girl, are you? You don't "totally want a pretty pony more than ANYTHING," right?

Right. You're a man. A sack of farts and sports trivia that drives a dirty pick-up truck and cuts down trees for a living. Or maybe you haul big metal pipes around a shipping yard or you drive an 18-wheeler full of nails or you're hired muscle for the mob. The point is, you're a tough son of a bitch who would chew through a lead pipe if it looked at him funny and... FUCK... being so goddamn masculine works up an appetite!!! So where do you turn when your guts are craving a burger, but one that just barely fits in the trunk of a mid-sized sedan? Dude, read the first paragraph of this post... it holds the answers to life, the universe, and everything, at least with regards to ridiculously-sized foodstuffs.

Additional thoughts...

-If you get it with a bacon, you run the risk of your blood thickening up like homemade cream gravy and your heart slowing down to one beat every five minutes as it churns and churns, struggling to pump, but unable to do so because... as I said... your blood would now be a delicious topping for a chicken-fried steak. So be careful with that.

-Should the kitchen happen to overcook your massive, soul-destroying burger... making it completely gray all the way through and not leaving even a trace of delicious, juicy pink that tastes so nice like sex in the afternoon... just eat the damn thing. If you send it back, demanding another one cooked correctly, THANK YOU, the guy running the grill will come out through the swinging doors clutching two handfuls of whatever sharp objects he can find. Those sharp objects will go into your skull. Yes, you may be in the right, technically, but you'll also be dead by the hands of a Puerto Rican line cook that not a court in the world would convict. So don't be "that guy."

-I know this probably isn't the case, but I'm imagining them putting mustard on the burger with those roller brushes you use to paint the walls of a house and, for whatever reason, this mental image makes me smile like a lottery winner getting a handjob during the World Series (where he's sitting in the luxury box watching his favorite team win with a walk-off grand slam).

-If you go in and order one of these, but vegetarian... like, just a bunch of Boca Burger patties all smooshed together in a giant ball called "yuk,"... you will be snapped on so hard by all the other patrons in the restaurant, you'll shit yourself where you stand and then your brain will melt out your nose because shame in such concentrated amounts is hotter than the surface of Mercury.

-I guess my point is this: I'm planning a road trip to Clearfield, PA. Who's in? We're going to find this place, order this burger, and we're going to eat it with our hands like our cavemen ancestors did with a freshly-killed sabertooth tiger. But first, before the primal eating and the worshiping to the meat gods, I'm going to fuck it. That's right, FUCK IT. Because that is one sexy-ass burger, right there. Mmmm... MMMM!!! S'up, baby, my name's C-Dog... oooh, you pretty...

Two Weeks

After months of thinking about it and chewing on it and letting it keep me up nights and metaphorically lightsaber dueling with it on the nearly completed second Death Star of my mind, I have finally... FINALLY... decided to quit my job.

In fact, I just did. Like, five minutes ago. I went in, sat down, and said enough is ENOUGH! And then I trashed the place and set all the plants on fire and... okay, well actually my bosses and I just talked quietly for a minute, and then I went back to my cube. To tell you the truth, it was a little anti-climactic. All weekend, I'd been gearing up for a fight; things have been rocky here the last couple of months, with all the headbutting with management and veiled threats in the office coffee lounge that that implies, and, frankly, I'd expected my resignation to cause a little more drama. Hurled invective, tears of rage, maybe even a drawn knife or two like when they killed Caesar. But, much to my surprise, they were nice about it. They said to me, "C-dog, you obviously weren't happy here and we're glad you made the decision on your own to leave." The underlying sentiment there is, of course, "we're glad we didn't have to make the decision FOR you," but still. They could have been dicks about it. They were SO nice about it, in fact, that I couldn't even rip them a new one (as planned) about the state of their union, as it were. We all just kind of smiled and shook hands and no one even flipped anyone else off. WEIRD.

But in the end, it's for the best. Like a good relationship that turned sour, we're both walking away wiser, tougher, and with the absolute minimum of disfiguring scars. It's the very definition of "cutting our losses" and, truthfully, I don't even feel like slagging them off in this lovely, pleasant-smelling public forum. Which blows my mind, seeing as how that's kind of what I sat down here to write. But, no. It's good to not be "that guy" about it. I had some legitimate beefs with regards to how this company has been run, and I was treated poorly by management besides, but in the end, what will me bitching and moaning about it accomplish? Nothing, save for making me look like a petty doofus with a pile of axes awaiting their grind.

So, instead of dwelling on the past, let's look towards... THE FUTURE!!!

Exciting! Also terrifying. I've got a few things in the pipe, employment-wise, but nothing is 100% secure. I've gotten signed up with an extremely good temp agency (btw, TOTALLY aced the office proficiency exam I had to take when I signed up; guess I have been paying attention here), I've got a couple of good leads for actual, non-temporary jobs, plus I've got the love and support of a good woman behind me, should I accidentally stumble into a life of crime. I'll weather this, is what I guess I'm saying. It won't be easy; in fact, there's every chance in the world that it's going to be a bit of a motherfucker. But I'll make it. Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride, nobody gonna slow me down, oh no, I got to keep on movin'.

So yeah, I guess that's it. I'll keep you posted on any further developments in the Life O' Me. I know you're just so fucking fascinated. As for how this will affect ZFS!...? Um, I don't know, to tell you the truth. It probably won't really change much of anything. Then again, depending where I land, the posting schedule (which has always been a tenuous thing at best) may get all scrambled around. But whatever the case, rest assured that the content will continue. Whether that's a good thing or not is, I suppose, a matter of personal opinion. Whatever, though, we'll take it all as it comes. It'll certainly be interesting, however it happens to go down.

HAPPY JOB-QUITTING DAY, EVERYBODY!!!

Five Ugly Outfits From The Emmys, or, "C-Dog Suddenly Cares About Fashion When He's Stuck For Blog Ideas"

#1



You know what's SO sexy? Four foot tall Latina chicks with plasticky, air-brushed skin that makes your sister's Barbie doll look like a living, breathing woman with hopes and fears and dreams and wishes. And if you want to increase said sexiness to the moon and back, make sure she's wearing a dress made out of tinfoil that lost it's will to live and, hey, slap a bow on there that screams, "your present this year is SKANK!" Can you imagine taking that thing off of her at the end of the night? And the make-up, too? Blech, getting her ready for bed must be like taking apart a stolen car mixed with stripping the paint off your parent's old sun porch after years of neglect.

#2



The whole Grandma Discovered The Goth Movement thing isn't hideous, per se... it's confusing and silly, if anything... but what's really unacceptable here is the gigantic golden crown sitting atop her 80's perm like she's the Queen of Acting because she killed Michael Douglas's bunny that one time. Lady, look, we all love you... you've been around forever and I bet you could kick Meryl Streep's ass in a fight... but you're taking ostentatious accouterments and cramming them so far up our asses, we can taste hairspray. Dial it down a notch... a tiara or something. Maybe some barrettes.

#3



It's cool that some of the attendees at the Emmys bring along the foreign exchange students that are living with them for the semester. Dieter really enjoys all the "big time Hollywooded stars, yes, my friend" and it'll be a night of great memories for him to cling to after he's back in Romania, working at a sausage factory, dreaming of the USA, and how for one night... he was SOMEBODY.

#4



If you have shoulders like an Olympic volleyball player and aren't talented in the least, you might want to do something about it so your two biggest flaws aren't accentuated for the world to see (and mock). For the former, wear something with a scooped neck that creates an optical illusion which diminishes your hulking, athlete upper-torso. And for the latter, well, maybe you should consider moving to a small town somewhere in West Texas and working at a Dairy Queen for awhile. You'll like it! You'll be the prettiest one there and maybe you can have sex with a cowboy! Well, whatever you decide to do, you should make SURE we don't notice your lack of talent by never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever being on TV again.

#5

Christ, is she a vampire's wet dream? Or is she some kind of Criss Angel magic trick that makes it look like she's got nine miles of neck swaying precariously on a bag of bones wrapped in robin's egg blue? Because either way, guys with throat fetishes are putting this picture on their bedroom wall for a little target practice, ifyaknowwhatImean (hitting the jugular is a bullseye). But seriously, she's like something from the Mos Eisley cantina got a job on a show about spend-freak psychos that make men want to jump crotch-first into a pig pile of running chainsaws and weedwackers and whatever else their uncle had in the garage.

And Now, A Cheery, 70s-Era PSA About Venereal Diseases...

Because when I think about horrible, life-ruining sexually transmitted diseases, I think of sweeping, musical numbers that sound like cut songs from the original Broadway production of Hello, Dolly! Anyway, just so we're clear, I'm not posting this video for it's campy entertainment value. No, I'm posting it as a way of gently letting you know that you have chlamydia.

Sorry you have chlamydia. You big whore.

It's late and I'm sleepy. Also full of Dinty Moore beef stew and Budweiser beer (as I am classy like that). But, before I slip off into a high-sodium/alcohol-soaked coma, I wanted to share with you one little thing...

Checking my traffic doohickey tonight, I noticed a recent hit from Italy. It seems that our Italian friend got to ZFS! via the Google; specifically by googling the phrase, "I love shitting." Knowing this makes me smile. It makes the sun shine a little brighter. It makes my heart throb with joy.

Ah, it DOES feels good to have a purpose in life. ZFS! is helping people. People who love shitting.

Goodnight, you wonderful internet. Italy, you're gross and I love you!

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

So, I think I'm kind of over my whole "we're headed for a Mad Max Great Depression omigod why didn't I buy a shotgun when they were on sale ack it's just like Cyndi Lauper said MONEY... MONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING!!!" hysterical 1950s-housewife freak out. I've taken a few deep, cleansing breaths. I've had a few glasses of cheap, satisfying vodka. I've enjoyed the season premier of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. I have, in other words, chilled the fuck out about the whole situation. Particularly after talking to my father, who reminded me that if my bank WERE to close it's doors forever in a spiral of market-crashing failure, I'd only be out like $50 or so. Which I guess means that being broke DOES in fact have it's advantages. While former-millionaire Wall Street execs are choking down their first meals of shoplifted Ramen and a can of that scary-looking corned beef hash-esque substance they sell in the ethnic aisle of the grocery store (it's usually next to the sardines), I'll be all, "Oooh, you going to finish that, Moneybags?" And he'll turn to me, sobbing, telling me how he lost everything he worked so hard for... how his kids are living at the YMCA and his wife joined on with a brothel in Chinatown and how he's never before experienced such depths of human misery. And THAT'S when I mug him for his shoes.

Shoes will be our new currency after the economy collapses, btw. But anyway, yeah, I think I'm ready to ride this shit out. Got me a line on a good barrel, got me a pointy mugging stick all sharpened and ready to poke. Even bought a shitload of spray paint so I can continue ZFS! on the walls of buildings in and around the Five Burroughs. Oh yes, this blog will live on in the not-so-brave, same-old-shit world. ZFS! don't die; ZFS! multiply. If I may drop a little Ini Komoze on all y'all domes. Here comes the hotstepper... here comes the hotstepper, indeed.

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Crazy bible lady on the subway yesterday... nothing new there, particularly as they all think these are the End Times and they need to get out and save a few souls to beef up their Heavenly batting average (mine is currently at a cool .119, which means I'm either an excellent pitcher or about to get sent down to the Minors, which in this scenario is Hell). But anyway, she was on the R train, rantin' n' ravin', talking about Jesus and how he's the bee's knees and whatnot and it was about three stops in that I realized she was working off of notes. Like, she had index cards with bullet points on them. Um, hi CHEATER!!! If God is taking up residence in your metaphorical tree like the world's holiest Keebler Elf, and if you truly believe all the rhetoric you're spouting, shouldn't you be able to bust it out off the cuff? Having notes makes me think you don't really know what you're doing, that maybe you DON'T love the sweet baby Jesus, that maybe... just maybe... God never existed in the first place and we're all just some alien's 11th-grade science fair experiment. Crazy bible lady, seriously, get your shit together. You're never going to fight Satan with index cards; dude's made of fire and paper burns! Commit it to memory or the Devil will own your ass like a delicious batch of EL Fudge sandwich cookies.

I guess my point here is that I could really go for some Keebler treats like in a big way. Mmmm... So tasty, those little Elvin bastards...

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I've been reading Vincent Patrick's excellent crime novel The Pope of Greenwich Village (it was also a movie, but I haven't seen it) and goddamn holy shit for fuck's sake I want to be in the Mob. Or the pop-culture myth version of the Mob, at any rate. All shady backrooms and guys with clever, atmospheric nicknames, and leather satchels full of cash slid under the table of an Italian restaurant where we "know a guy" who'll fix us up some nice eats before we go "take care of a little problem" out by the docks. FUCK, that sounds like so much coolsy-woolsy fun!!! They could call me Fat Clinton (or possibly Clintasaurus Rex, if they're down with dinosaur references) and I'll wear a lot of track suits and gold jewelry and break knees with a lead pipe, should there be knees that need a-breakin'. I mean, granted, there's the possibility that I could get killed, particularly since I'd have no issue with screwing over all my fellow mobsters for extra cash... with Clintasaurus Rex, it's all about looking out for number one... but you know, whatever, I could handle it. I'm tough. I'm streetwise. Plus, I've got my pointy mugging stick and... HEY... that could be like "my thing." I could be the mobster who pokes people with a pointy stick! Oh yeah, I am TOTALLY joining the Mob today after work. Does anyone know where I can fill out an application or whatever? Probably down in Little Italy, right? Well, I'll just ask around...

Brother, Can You Spare 50 Billion Dimes?

Seriously, I'm really freaked out by this whole "economic disaster" thing. Mainly because I don't understand it. Like, AT ALL. It just conjures up visions of me in a year standing on a street corner, crying, wearing a barrel held up by suspender straps while Girlfriend tries to sell apples from a shopping cart and our cat dances for nickles on a TV tray "liberated" from a bombed-out Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

I don't want to be a hobo, dudes. I may admire their fashion choices and agree with them that kerosene is fine for human consumption as long as you've got plenty of mixer, but I CAN'T LIVE ON THE STREETS!!! It's dirty and people spit all over the place and there's stinky garbage and it'll be cold soon and there won't be any old Iron Chef reruns to listen to as I fall asleep. Unacceptable, and I won't have it, and not on my watch, and you and what army, motherfucker!!!

Sorry, I'm a little riled up. I guess my point is that somebody who knows what's going on needs to head over to wherever it is that we keep the economy and FIX THE FUCKING THING! I'll donate five bucks if that will fix it. Will that fix it? Because I've got five bucks right here if that'll make it so I never have to consider the possibility that I might have to sell my body to the night for Ramen money (as opposed to selling my body to the night for fun, like normal).

Please, smart people... get on this. And keep me posted! If shit goes South, I want to get to the good barrels first.

Total honesty, kiddos...

I'm WAY too stressed out about job stuff and the current state of the economy and the looming, Greg Stillson-esque specter of a McCain/Palin America to even ATTEMPT being funny, at least for right now. If the coffee kicks in and I calm down a little bit, I'll post something later. Maybe my humorous take on what cats are really thinking, or perhaps some Sniglets. Until then, here's the trailer for The Road Warrior... we might want to study it so when we're being chased down by punk-rock bikers who want our gasoline, we'll already know some tricks to make them run into dead cars or whatever. This should be happening in our country within the next six months or so; be sure to take lots of notes!

Thinking Of Buying A Gun (A Big One That Goes BOOM!!!)

-C

Thoughts On Legs & The Short Man

Yesterday, the world's smallest man (seated) and the woman with the world's longest legs met in London to help promote the soon-t0-be-released 2009 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records. Thoughts...

-This probably says a lot about me and how I'm gigantic perv but, seriously, how is he not looking up her skirt right now? Were I a tiny dude posing under a freaky tall lady so everyone in the world could look at me and go "WTF OMG BBQ," I'd at least take the opportunity to enjoy the view. Of her crotch, I mean, just in case I wasn't clear. Anyway, I'd like to think that this is the only photograph taken of this particular pose where he is actually facing the camera. All the others show her smiling and him smiling too, but for entirely different reasons (crotch).

-After they got done taking pictures, they went off together to fight crime. Don't tell me that's not true... it HAS to be true. They're called Legs & The Short Man and their adventures are the stuff of legend amongst people who are sick of Batman and all his broody, angsty bullshit. Iron Man saw them foil a bank heist and crapped his armor from jealousy. Spider-Man tried to help them this one time but they gave him a wedgie and he puked up a web while crying. Superman won't fuck with them either, but that's because he doesn't exist. Doye.

-I'm not really a "leg man" anyway but if I were I think hanging out with this lady would get me over it kind of like how your dad made you smoke a whole pack of cigarettes after he busted you behind the shed with a stolen Marlboro. Even the THOUGHT of a cigarette after that made you want to hurl and it would be the same thing with her. Your girlfriend would come in wearing shorts and suddenly you're all nauseous with the spins and you're freezing but sweating. And then she gets her feelings hurt because, um... what were you doing hanging out with some long-legged hussy anyway? Your girlfriend loves you and you're off getting sick of legs somewhere... dude, that's not cool.

-Do you think his buddies are ever tempted to just hurl him across a field like a Nerf product? Especially if, say, they're trying to pick a restaurant to go eat at and everyone is cool with TGI Fridays, but he's all "no, TGI Fridays has shitty Southwestern Eggrolls and that's ALL I'm in the mood for so let's go to Chili's," throwing off major 'tude for such a little guy (short-man's disease, ya know). I think the urge to just fling his ass into a ditch would be too powerful to resist. Particularly since all subsequent retaliations could be easily suppressed with a pair of quality shin guards.

-There was an interview with a representative from Guinness (the book, not the beer) (sadly) who made a big deal about how, "the Guinness Book isn't about making fun of freaks" and isn't a "carnival sideshow attraction." I'm paraphrasing, of course, but that's basically what he said. Then he made the little guy dance in a monkey costume for french fries and he collected nickles from the audience because if he got enough nickles, he promised to make the long-legged chick have sex with the funny, tiny man and he'd throw the nickles at them. Then it's back to the cages. Oh and both the silly, small man and the crazy-limbed lady are for sale!!! Prices are insane!!!

Arbitrary Rulings 18 (Colors Edition)

Red - It is every guy's favorite color because a woman in red underwear, standing in the bedroom door with a smile on her face and a bottle of BBQ sauce in her hand (or however YOU spice up your sex life), is the greatest thing on the planet outside of your team winning the World Series or a woman naked with the BBQ sauce and the beckoning as she whispers, "let me slather it on, big boy." Mmmm... I can taste the hickory flavor now... the hot, fuckable hickory flavor...

Black - You may have noticed this already from the numerous pictures I've posted of myself during the two-plus years of ZFS, but I'm sort of a tubby dude. Seeing as that's the case, I wear black clothes a lot because black makes me look like a marginally less tubby dude and thus I have the confidence to freely socialize amongst my peoples and not think that everyone is staring at my horrifying, wiggling gut as I'm trying to tell a joke, say, or strategically position myself next to the part of the buffet with all the dips. Black is also good for hiding dip stains, grease stains, and for fighting the power.

Orange - Is there anything more refreshing than a tall, ice-cold glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice first thing in the morning? Especially when you dump half of it out and fill the glass back to the top with vodka and then drink it really fast with a straw and suddenly you're hurling biscuits out your kitchen window and seeing how many scrambled eggs you can fit into your boxer shorts before you die from laughing. The afternoon hangovers can be rough... particularly if you miss the trash can with your bright, orange barf... but that's the price you pay for an awesome brunch that voids your security deposit and gets you thrown in jail wearing only your eggy, eggy boxers.

White - Not a good color at all. I mean, you can't wear anything white because ketchup and salsa and lipstick all exist and might conceivably come in contact with your body and then what, huh? Then what? You've got a blortch of color on your fine, white shirt and it's pretty much ruined unless you want to go to all the trouble of bleaching it and, trust me, YOU DON'T. Not worth the hassle. Oh, also, white people are pretty much the cause of every problem that's ever existed since the dawn of time. So, yeah, there's that too.

Blue - An excellent choice in hair color if you like a lot of loud music that makes parents write letters to Congress, but generally blue is just a wonderful, soothing shade. Why do you think all our jeans look the way they do? Because Levi Strauss knew that the world was becoming a mean, awful place, so he dyed all the pants he sold blue so everyone would be walking around with mellow, calming legs diffusing situations and relaxing society's knotted muscles like those Japanese massages where the girl stands on your back. Dude should get a retroactive Nobel Peace Prize for all the wars not started because right at the tipping point, people looked below their waist, saw blue, and ended up talking out their troubles over some pizza and pop.

Purple - There's this restaurant in Austin called Baby Acapulco's (Baby A's to the locals) and they have this Purple Margarita there that they'll only let you have two of in one sitting. And believe me, two is enough... after one, your enchiladas start talking to you and you feel like you're floating five or six inches out of the booth. Drinking your allotted second Purple Marg will briefly grant you the ability to see through time and space. It's fun to check out what dinosaurs were like and to see all the Greek myths but for real, however it IS kind of lame to wake up two days later in a hospital bed with all your family members standing around you scowling and wishing you weren't such a raging, embarrassing, purple-stained-mouth drunk.

Green - Minty! Also lime, I guess, and sour apple occasionally, but mostly it's the only flavor that can help you get laid. Because chicks dig minty breath way more than, say, Cool Ranch Doritos breath or that funky, sour breath you get after you've chugged a half-gallon of your roommate's milk to get the taste of stale beer out of your mouth because you've got a date and haven't heard of toothpaste since you left home for college. Which is why, no matter what happens to our economy, the Tic-Tac market will always be booming like a P.O.D. song.

Pink - People think this is a "girly" color and is really only appropriate for ten-year-old princess parties with strawberry cake and punch so sweet it can kill a diabetic at thirty paces if the wind is just right, but no... pink is actually the most manly color around. BECAUSE people take it at such a femme slant, being a straight dude rocking a pink dress shirt jams the whole thing back up everyone's ass all fuck you butch-style, bringing the whole thing around to "stud" and leaving all those little girls in tiaras and mom's minks out crying in the rain. Pink, we men have reclaimed you!!! Also, pink is the color of vaginas and vaginas... I think we can all agree... are just so awesome.

Yellow - Here's where this post could go off the rails a bit because the only colors left are yellow and brown and, given the scatological places to which this blog has been known to stray, it's pretty obvious where I might be heading with this. UNLESS... maybe I've grown up all of a sudden. Maybe I've decided to zag when you think I'm going to zig, outwitting you guys with talk of sunshine and daffodils and slices of lemon cake all golden and tasty in our mouths crying yellow... YELLOW... yes, God, it's bright and clear and smells like sharp Springtime and we are mature at ZFS at last!!!

Brown - It's the color of poop!!! HA HA HA AHAHA HA HAHA HA AHA POOOOPP!!!!

Unnecessary Critique: Champale's Ad Campaigns

NOTE: You may think that it is silly and a waste of everyone's time to turn a critical eye towards the ad campaigns of an unpopular product from a by-gone era, however, let me say this in my defense: Shut up, buttface. Now, Champale, in all it's glory!!!

Oh my god, Champale, you are blowing up class like a tuxedo atom bomb set to Vivaldi in a Parisian ballroom during a millionaire's birthday party on New Year's Eve. So tasteful, so elegant, so malt liquor-y... you are the faux-champagne curse of the working class, but in a top hat made of money. Your ad campaigns from the late 60s and early 70s, on the other hand, were awful. So much so, they came all the way back around to awesome. They're awesomely awful, in other words, and we here at ZFS want to take a long, hard, throbbing look at them because it's Monday and we're sleepy and that seems way easier than like actually doing stuff or whatever. So, let's get our unnecessary critique on, fine living-style!!!

#1



This is one of the best examples of cuts-both-ways advertising I've ever seen. What they're trying to say... or, rather, what they want you to BELIEVE they're trying to say... is that Champale is the perfect drink for celebrating the everyday existence of life on this wonderful planet Earth. Every day is a party, every day deserves a little class, particularly at such affordable prices. That's one way to read the above ad. The OTHER way to read it... which, incidentally, is more accurate... is like this: "Champale. You Have Nothing To Celebrate, So You Might As Well Drink This." In other words, your life is miserable to the point where buying a gussied up cousin of Colt 45 counts as a reason to be thrilled your alive. Seriously, there isn't a single thing in your life that brings you joy. You're a dead man walking, a shell of a human turned away from all that is goodness and light. Here, you might as well have a Champale. Because what else are you going to do? Succeed? Ha ha ha heh hoo... right... drink up, pal. Celebrate nothing with it. Celebrate!!!

#2



You might have to actually read the whole text of the thing to truly understand it's glory, but in case you don't feel like studying ad-copy from 1968, allow me to summarize: The gist is that the Boss (pictured) won't give you (the reader) a raise because he sees you drinking what he believes to be champagne at your desk everyday and, thus, assumes you're living the good life and aren't in need of any extra cash. Now, absorb what's going on here... the Boss isn't taking issue with the fact that you're drinking every day at your desk. No, he's taking issue with the fact you appear to be drinking a higher quality of booze than him! OH MY GOD why wasn't I an adult in the 60s?!?! It was a magical drunkard's dreamworld where nobody cared and doctors prescribed whiskey for everything from Polio to alcoholism. My liver is trying to eject out my navel just thinking about it.

#3 and #4

Apparently, at some point in it's lifespan, the creators of Champale decided to market their product to the African-American community. The resulting ads were... oh... let's say... "slightly uncomfortable" for everyone involved. Looking at them now, particularly the last one, makes my skin crawl like I just realized my blind date was in The Klan (lousy Craigslist). I don't know... maybe I'm just too much of a guilty liberal. Maybe these ads are fine and African-American men and women everywhere have been actively looking for a beverage that tricks their mouth into thinking it's both Saturday night AND having a party. I don't know... I'm very white and clueless about such things. But whatever the case, I can't imagine that Champale was the beverage they were looking for. It's offensive in every way, plus I'd wager that it tastes like cat pee. Fancy cat pee, but still.

Shitting Fire: A Post For The Ladies

I went with a friend of mine to Buffalo Wild Wings yesterday and, since then, I've been shitting fire like I swallowed a blowtorch from Satan's chop shop deep in the bowels of Hell (pun totally intended). Like, I don't want to get too graphic or anything, because I'd feel bad if the entire internet started puking because of me, but damn, kids... fucking DAMN. It's partially my fault because I'm one of those deeply insecure dudes... probably due to the number of Original Cast Recordings that I own... who feels they have to do all their overcompensating for their girly shortcomings in the area of spicy foods. So, while I would have enjoyed a sensible medium-spicy wing sauce or even a mellow, flavorful Parmesan-Garlic, I ended up going for the "Hot" variety, which is pretty close to the "Blazin' Nuclear Deathballs" flavor, but not quite (I'm not a sadist, after all). Basically my goal was to get a flavor hotter than what my boy got, just so I could feel like a big, big man. My one-upmanship OF COURSE went completely unnoticed and so I ended up with a plate of chicken wings that were deeply, deeply spicy and hurtful and said mean things about my mother and laughed off the liberal dunkings in bleu cheese like the monster in Cloverfield shrugging off missile attacks from a tank, all for naught.

But, look, I'd be lying if I said they weren't delicious; that the whole exercise of eating brutal wings was horrible and made me wish I were somewhere boring eating bland toast with a spoon. They were still Buffalo Wild Wings, which means they were a minefield of amazing taste sensations amid an array of sports-related programing that makes the Dude part of my brain go "aaaaahhhhhh." I ate every single wing and smiled while I did so, even if my tongue was a little pissed at me and my lips were like, "you motherfucker."

The real problems started after I got home; after I'd had a chance to digest all that cayenne pepper. That's when I started shitting. A lot. And every single visit to the bathroom was like someone had maced my butthole with military-grade pepper spray. So not cool... so painful and sad and now I'm scared to ever poo again because it feels like I'm going through a blasted landscape of open wounds. Seriously, I think I need to check out my "exit door" with a hand mirror because I'm afraid it's nothing but a wad of ground beef that used to be my colon. I mean, I know it's probably not but, Jesus, what if it IS!!! What if the hot sauce has ruined my ass and I have to spend the rest of my life shitting through a tube into a bag labeled "pathetic?"

God, I might just kill myself. Or, whatever, get really drunk and throw my poop at people. That could be fun too. Anyway, so that's my weekend. Painful doo-doos and the crisis of the mind that followed.

In other news, ZFS has been nominated for the Classy Awards and is expected to sweep all categories. My acceptance speech will be delivered from a men's room where a drifter just died. See you on the red carpet!!!

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

There was this little Asian girl on the train yesterday morning and she was absolutely going banana bonkers with the dancing through the car and swinging around the pole and carrying on nine different conversations with nine different imaginary friends. And, sure, it was annoying as all hell; she was being louder than your average speed-metal concert and bratty like an 80s sitcom stereotype to her clearly-exhausted mother. But, I don't know, I guess I kind of envied her as well. Bopping along, no cares whatsoever, rocking the Dora the Explorer backpack and thinking about how good candy is... I miss that. Being an adult, with the debt and the existential angst and thinning hair... that fucking sucks. Maybe I want to dance through trains, okay, maybe I want to have a bunch of best-friend cartoon characters that have rich back stories and make all sorts of witty comments even though they don't exist. Maybe I want to be a kid again, god fucking dammit!!!

Is that too much to ask? Can someone invent a pill that makes me an age where it's okay to stage elaborate wars with GI Joes all day and then go have a fried baloney sandwich in front of Today's Special? C'mon, science... quit fucking around with atom smashers. Focus on what's important (to me).

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I've noticed, via my traffic-counter doohickey, that in the last couple of days ZFS has had a regular visitor from Belgium. I think that's neat. So, guy or gal from Belgium, please contact me in the comments section or through my email address. I want to know what it's like in Belgium. I'm imagining a government sponsored program that gives out free waffles at meal times and, if this is actually the case, then you and I need to talk about how we're getting married so I can be a citizen of Belgium. Holy shit I love waffles.

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Fall is here, at least in the C-dog/Girlfriend household. And it has nothing to do with the weather or the calender date or the leaves changing on the apple trees in our living room (god, buying that home orchard kit was a mistake... lousy Ron Popeil). No, Fall is here because Girlfriend and I had our first grilled cheese and tomato soup dinner since whenever it was last cold. All creamy and hot and tomato-y with the grilled cheese slutty melting on the plate wearing a golden brown jacket like a delicious Sun God. Mmmm.... Holy shit I love tomato soup and grilled cheese more than I love waffles.

So anyway, yeah, Fall... catch the fever!

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I'm feeling kind of randomly crappy this morning... physically, as opposed to mentally for once... so I'm going to hit you up with a couple of things I figured out this week, then I'm gonna bounce. Go lay down and think non-pukey thoughts or something. So, here (pay attention, this shit is important like grad school classes):

-Every time I listen to "Lazy Line Painter Jane" by Belle & Sebastian, I think about how great it would be to sing it karaoke in a bar at two am with a pretty girl while everyone cheers and the lights shimmer and all the problems in the world go POOF. This goes for everyone, too. Everyone feels this way about this song and I can prove it with a calculator and some graph paper.

-I really, honestly believe that Kitchen Nightmares is one of the best programs on TV... it's about helping and there's also food, which I enjoy... but why the fuck do they only do restaurants on Long Island? Does Long Island have an off-the-hook amount of shitty restaurants, or did the production van break down and so they can only fix up shitty joints within walking distance?

-My friend Mike, who sits next to me at work, lost his voice this week and could only communicate with me via AIM. It was like having a robot buddy and it was sort of awesome. He got his voice back, though, and so then it was like someone killed my robot buddy. NOT awesome. Need to find me a replacement robot buddy stat because I want to go fight crime and have adventures and you really need a sidekick for that.

Matt Damon: Voice of Reason

NOTE: This is going to be on a lot of websites today, I'm sure, but that's fine... I'm totally okay with being unoriginal because what dude is saying is dead-on and needs to be heard by as many people as possible.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Saw V



Yeah, yeah... I did this one last time. Sorry, they keep cranking out awful posters so like what am I supposed to do, IGNORE them? Impossible. Particularly when they release one that's a play on the themes first presented in Alice In Chain's immortal classic, "Man in the Box." Also, I wanted to call out this poster specifically because it depicts the main thing that's wrong with the entire Saw franchise; namely, the whole "fast motion people flailing around" camera tricks that I think are supposed to be scary, but are actually just annoying like an older brother flicking your earlobe or a broken spring in your car seat that's constantly poking you in the butt. Look, believe it or not, I actually think some of the stuff put forth in the Saw movies is pretty creative and original... certainly not your average guy-with-a-knife-running-after-coeds kind of horror film, and I appreciate that. But... DUDES... these editing farts and stylistic beat-offs make it really fucking hard for any of us to take you seriously. It's the same reason that we'll never hire a Goth kid to be our country's Surgeon General; they may have the finest medical mind in the country, but who's going to listen to a twelve-point plan to eradicate our nation's obesity epidemic when it's coming out of a black-smeared mouth attached to a ghostly pale head surrounded by Robert Smith hair resting atop a hunched, fat body wrapped in a Slipknot tour shirt accented by a cape? No one, that's who. Same deal with Saw V. Yep. Totally the same.

The Amazing Truth About Queen Raquela



I have no idea what this movie is, what it's about, why she's peeing in the men's room, etc... I just put it in here to point out how far we've come with regards to the things we'll put on a movie poster. Certainly a different aesthetic from the earlier days of cinema; Grace Kelly wouldn't have allowed a photo of her coping a squat to become the poster for Rear Window, I'd really like to think. I mean, yeah, I know it was a different time back then and we're all liberated now and why SHOULDN'T our graphic design teams think more towards potty humor as a marketing ploy (hell, it work's on me)? Still, though... I don't know. Seems a little declasse. Not like I'm one to judge, of course, seeing as how... well, you've read this blog. You know what I'm about. (farts)

Also, weird toilet design. What, are they in Europe or something? Do women pee like this in Europe? Confusing.

Bitch Slap



Uh... what? Is "Rawhide," I guess, the one doing the titular bitch-slapping, or is she the one ABOUT to get bitch-slapped. The poster's not really clear. She looks pretty tough, though... all dirty and bloody and rocking the studded bracelet/bikini combo like a post-apocalyptic Swimsuit Model that uses crude oil for sunscreen and does the backstroke in a lake of fire. Well, whatever the case, I'm in. Tough chicks are kind of hot and if you play your cards right, they'll fight your battles for you while you kick back with a quart of beer and an assortment of snacks. They're like hired bodyguards that let you touch their boobies.

Save Me



Um, dude, Jesus doesn't work like that. Also, in the cast list... Judith Light! Who's The Boss AND a bunch of Lifetime movies about abusive husbands who stalk their eating-disorder wives across the country while trying to take their babies in a nasty custody battle over who gets to keep the drugs. Such a career! And now she's in this thing, apparently. Ah, good for her. At least she's working.

My Bloody Valentine 3D

I harp on horror movie remakes a lot because, obviously, they're the worst thing to happen to modern cinema since we all decided we were okay with letting Dane Cook make a few pictures, what harm could it do, oh right he uses smugness like a samurai uses a sword and now our heads are chopped off THANKS DANE COOK, YOU STUBBLY BASTARD... where was I going with this... oh, right, horror movie remakes: Usually, they're aborted fetuses rubbed on the screen by perverts from Mars. However, with My Bloody Valentine, I'm actually okay with the remake idea. The original, an early-80s slasher flick about a psycho coal miner killing kids during a big dance, was pretty bad. And, before it's release, the studio got cold feet and cut a TON of the gore from the film and then promptly lost all the footage; the movie can never be restored to it's properly nasty original self, and what's left over isn't so hot, so why the hell NOT remake it. See if we can improve on the sub-par original, even a little bit. Movie Studios, seriously, THESE are the kind of movies it's okay to remake. Stuff that was pretty meh to begin with. Leave our fucking Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street movies alone. Those don't need your fuckery.

Oh, and ten bucks says Saw 6 is going to be in 3D. It's the wave of the future, man, if you consider the late-60s to be the future.

Supercollider? I Hardly KNOW Her!

In a top secret location deep in the chocolate-y heart of Switzerland, the Large Hadron Collider... which is a thing that does science stuff and, if I do say so myself, looks a lot like a robot's butthole... has been activated this morning by a team of nerds that we're all just going to assume know what they're doing. Because, and I'm sure it's probably nothing, but the Large Hadron Collider has the power to DESTROY THE WORLD!!! Mind you, this is according to ANOTHER group of nerds... ones that apparently think science fiction movies are real... who claim that while the stated purpose of the LHC is to smash atoms together all awesome-style, what it is really going to do is create a bunch of black holes that will swallow up the universe and seriously put a crimp in our Friday night social lives. Well, kiddos, I'm hear to tell you that these fears are groundless. The LHC isn't going to kill us all and punch God in the face and make all of existence just a big blank void like in Daffy Duck cartoons when he was being tormented by The Animator. I know this for a fact because I'm basically a techno-science genius who always wears his smarty pants (they're slimming).

However, there is some stuff about the Large Hadron Collider that you, the general public, DO NOT know. Some secret features and uses that the Switzer-nerds haven't made public because they're selfish and think sharing is for non-Swiss losers. God, they're such dicks... Anyway, because I only care about your collective happiness, here's...

Other Junk That The Large Hadron Collider Can Do Besides Make Atoms Have Streetfights or Whatever

-It can shoot a beam of pure energy into the air, then split that beam into a thousand rays of white light that, when put to some Pink Floyd music, is just so totally amazing. The Large Hadron Collider also doubles as a bong.

-It makes Slurpees, but only the Coke flavor. Which is okay I guess but, I don't know, what if I want cherry or blue raspberry or whatever that green one was that was supposed to be like if Shrek were a Slurpee. What if I want one of THOSE flavors? Why even HAVE a Slurpee machine if you're only going to have one flavor?

-It's got a thing that's called "radar love;" it's got a line in the sky. Ooooh. Radar love. (best experienced if one has been drivin' all night, hands wet on the wheel)

-It has a name that's ONE LETTER SWAP away from being the best boner joke science ever made.

-If you put a little bit of your DNA inside the LHC, it will create an exact clone. It's not perfected yet, of course... the clones dissolve into a soft pile of sand after a few hours... but that should be long enough to trick your girlfriend into thinking that you're taking her to see that Nights in Rodanthe piece of crap when you're actually just chillin' on the couch with some Cheez-Its and a stack of Shannon Tweed flicks. She'll be pissed when "you" dissolve right as the credits roll, but... hey... at least you didn't have to sit through Richard Gere acting all hangdog in love on a beach. Ugh. The "you sent me to the movies with A CLONE" fight will soooo be worth it.

-It gets cable (but you have to pay extra for HBO).

-You know that one part in The Rocky Horror Picture Show where Richard O'Brien comes out and sings, "Frankenfurter, It's all over/Your mission was a failure, your lifestyle's too extreeeeme/I'm your new commander, you now are my prisoner/We return to Transylvania, prepare the transit beam" all David Bowie glam? The transit beam he's talking about? The Large Hadron Collider. As a bonus, the LHC can hook you up with Tim Curry if you're interested. They know each other from college.

-It vibrates A LOT, so, you know, the ladies love it.

-If you go during off-hours and you ask really nicely, the scientists will let you use the Large Hadron Collider to make copies of your house keys. It takes twelve hours and costs about six hundred million dollars, but it's worth it because those key-copy places are NEVER open when you need them.

-It causes black holes to form that will swallow up the entire universe. No, wait, it DOESN'T do that!!! Ha ha... just kidding... no black holes here... (we're fucked)

Generic Products: A Pictorial

Generic Soda



I am such a fan of generic soda, it's kind of retarded. I would make out with it, had it lips on it's cruel, metal mouth. In fact, I'm drinking generic soda RIGHT NOW, though sadly not the fine specimen of soda pop genericness you see pictured above (as this is not the suburbs, three decades ago). No, I'm currently taking care of some Big Fizz Cola, which is available at your local Rite Aid for a measly 79 cents and whatever dignity you've got left. It tastes like flat Jolt mixed with that Dr. Pepper lip gloss from when you were ten, but more specifically, it tastes like a motherfucking bargain. And for good measure, I've cut it with some generic brand vodka... Popov, from a plastic jug bought on sale while the liquor store clerk looked at me with a mixture of anger and pity. Yeah, yeah... for a grown-ass man, my drink choices sure are pathetic and speak to a life spent in efficiency apartments in the bad part of town. Whatever. BARGAIN!!!

Generic Cereal



People will try to tell you that the worst thing you can do to a child is punch them in the face while drunk or destroy their self-esteem through years of psychological torture and emotional abuse but the people who try to tell you that are fucking morons. The absolute WORST thing you can do to a child is bust out the Malt-O-Meal when he or she has friends at the house for a sleepover. "Oh, now, it's the exact same cereal... it's just cheaper!" Right. And you should plan on spending that money you've saved on Little Johnny or Susie's therapy bills after their entire class snaps on them all the way through graduation because they're the poor kids on welfare who's parents spent all the Honey Nut Cheerios money on crack rocks, so they had to buy the junk in bags from the bottom shelf, which, it should be pointed out, is totally the same stuff the janitor uses to clean up puke, it's true, Tyler's older bother told me so. Ask ten sixth graders which is scarier... the entire Saw franchise, or Mom offering their friends some Honey Nut Scooters... and you'll have nine sixth graders screaming, "not the bag... anything but THE BAG!!!" You'll also have one sixth grader who says he doesn't care, but fuck him... he lives with his grandparents and smells like sour milk.

Generic Medicine



It's pretty much all I buy, but that's only because I'm broke and too fat to get away with shoplifting the good stuff. Look, I know it's just like the cereal... basically the same as the name brand, but more affordable and whatever... but, I don't know, I feel like it probably doesn't work as well as it's more spendy counterparts. Like when heroin dealers cut their smack with baby laxatives or baking powder... I just kind of assume that the manufacturers are skimping on the actual drugs and putting in, for all we know, bleach or anthrax or the ground up bones of Navajo warriors they found in the factory sub-basement. What I'm trying to say is this: Generic medicine is most likely cursed like the house in Poltergeist and we're all going to get sucked into an inter-dimensional void because we use it all the time, or at the very least we're going to get attacked by a creepy clown puppet.

Generic Pickles



Alright, I know these aren't generic pickles, strictly speaking. They're foreign pickles, and weird ones at that... seriously, what's that white, honeycomb-ish thing, besides deeply troubling? But here's the thing... do you have any idea how hard it is to find a picture of generic pickles? I searched for HOURS (several minutes) and found nothing. Nada. Zip. Pictures of gourmet, hand-crafted, virgin caressed pickles jarred by monks and farted on by The Jonas Brothers? Sure! Tons of them. Whole organic farmer's markets worth. But what of the pale, limp pickles in a smudged glass jar with a crooked label? What of the Val-U-Gherkin? The internet is oddly barren of any photographic evidence of such a product and I think that speaks to a larger, class-based conspiracy to keep down the blue collar worker by... withholding... pictures of affordable food... okay, look, I haven't worked out all the details yet, but know that the conspiracy is vast and probably involves aliens.

Generic Beer



A thing of the past, sadly, like the snap-brim fedora and a general faith in our nation's government. But can you imagine how great it would have been to wander into a Pathmark or a Tom Thumb or a Ralph's and pick up a sixer of low-quality, barely-drinkable cat pee for the price of a McDonald's hamburger? My god, the 1970s were a hobo drifter's paradise, all shabby jackets and post-Nixon anxieties and the rise of pornography and amazing, crappy beer. What a wonderful time to be alive and have no standards whatsoever. Seriously, I'm building a time machine and growing out a thick Fu Manchu-style mustache.

Non-Generic Cake

I recognize that this isn't in keeping with the stated theme of the post... in fact, it's the exact opposite; a seemingly generic product (cake) given a name brand (7-Up) for no reason other than to create mass confusion amongst a population suddenly forced to consider the possibility that baked goods can taste like soda pop. I mean, sure, you COULD make an argument that the cake most likely contains 7-Up as one of it's ingredients... and, hey, you might be right... but I think we all know what's really going on here. Remember the pickle conspiracy? Well the powers that be got sick of smelling like brine all the time. They've refocused their energies into the brave, new world of power-branded pastries. Be on guard for Campbell's Soup Muffins and Gillette Fusion Lemon Bars and Ace Bandages wrapped around crullers as jackbooted fascists take over the world!!! Somehow. Again, I really haven't thought this through all the way to the end. But, oh yes... it's happening.