I love tattoos.  I love everything about getting a tattoo.  I love the anticipation of the tattoo, the tawdry feeling of subversiveness that comes with hanging out in the tattoo parlor, the knowledge that you are going to leave looking a little more badass than when you walked in, and ESPECIALLY the searing sting and deafening SNAP of the tattoo gun, followed by the glistening sheen of the A&D ointment on your crisp and colorful new Rembrandt…but, most of all, the epiphany of finally finding “the” tattoo.  The perfect artistic representation of YOU, RIGHT NOW.

GOOD tattoos are beautiful.

Unfortunately, anyone of legal age with a hundred bucks in their pocket can get a tattoo.  Since there is no manner of “good taste” sieve to sift out the bad decisions, drunken pranks, and general, downright ugly, those of us with well-thought-out, artful, and spectacular tattoos are forced into the same category as the hideously ubiquitous “unicorn on my shoulder” and “rose on my breast” tattoos…blech.  Of course, the placement of those is interchangeable.

Don’t fool yourself into thinking you are above reproach because your unicorn is on your breast and your rose is on your shoulder…that doesn’t make either of them more attractive peeking out of the lacy straps of your Harley-Davidson tank top, sweetie.  Here, let me hold your beer for a second so you can flick the four inch ash from the tip of your Marlboro, and dig the ill-fitting daisy dukes out of your cameltoe.

Of course, as cheap and trashy as those tattoos are, and forever WILL be, at least they are not a colorful, bloody tampon.

You wanna talk about REGRET?  How the hell are going to explain this to your mother?  “But MOM, it’s an HOMAGE to ABSORBENCY!!!”  I suppose anyone with THAT tattoo is less concerned with what their mother is thinking, and more concerned about what goodies they might be able to dig out of her bathroom trash.  Bite.  Pull.  Fling.  Vomit.  Why not just get a tattoo of an honest-to-GOD douche bag, complete with nozzle and hose attachment?  Oh, because THAT might be considered gross and inappropriate.  Seriously, how fucking retarded do you have to be?

Okay, I guess you have to be AT LEAST this retarded.  What the fuck is “TRADGEY?”  This tattoo is a tragedy.  Come ON…this is a permanent message, irreparably carved into your flesh for the rest of your natural life and incapable of being rectified.  The recipient had to approve this before it was made permanent.  Serves you RIGHT, you fucking ASSHOLE…SPELL CHECK YOUR TATTOO.

Is that Dionne Warwick?  What the FUCK?

Here we have Patrick Swayze looking like a primordial dwarf…in addition to the OBVIOUS shortcomings of this monstrosity.  I would really like to know the back-story on this one.  It’s the perfect marriage of ballsy and stupid, since nobody else is going to get the joke.  “I am looking for something to cover up this cheap looking rose tattoo…”

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I fucking HATE, HATE, HATE people that have stupid tattoos…and I don’t mean that I hate the tattoos, I fucking HATE THE PEOPLE.  You wanna know why?  BECAUSE THEY ARE FUCKING STUPID!!!!  That is not to say that everyone WITH tattoos is stupid, obviously that isn’t true…I have seen people covered from head to toe in beautiful tattoos, but people that don’t put any thought into their tattoos, or the ramifications of getting a STUPID tattoo, deserve to look like the assholes they invariably are.  What’s next?  A tattoo of a masturbating Jesus?  Maybe Mother Theresa’s leprotic snatch?  I mean, there is an entire world of tasteless body art that has yet to be tapped, and millions of useless dickwads that are more than willing to sacrifice their own personal dignity to be a part of the problem…

No sweat, I have the perfect tattoo for them…

For just these occasions, I have decided to share with you my arsenal of cute animal pictures that will guarantee you success in a multitude of these situations. Just read on to arm yourself with all you need to convey the following messages:

“You make me Happy”:

“I am a little Frightened right now”:

“Dear God I wish I had NEVER seen that”:

Editor’s Note: And one of my personal favorites…

I woke up pissed off today.

There have been many things recently that have been carving my brainwaves like little razor balls and I feel that now is a good time to shove my finger down my throat and dislodge the emotional emesis.

The crux of my ire is rooted in the fertile soil of glommage and gloryseeking.  As a writer who has had the good fortune of having two books published, I have every reason to be excited and proud.  I am both of those things, but what I am also quickly becoming is impatient and jaded (even moreso than before).  I had no idea that my coattails were worth riding.  I have a very close knit circle of friends, both new and old and, for many reasons, I try never to breach the boundary of that circle because - almost without fail - bringing someone new into the fold spells trouble.

I have also developed a bit of an uncanny knack for making regretable choices.  Not the kind of life-altering choices that have you end up dead or in an alley with a needle hanging out of your arm, but the kind of choices that equal giving incorrect directions - “Hey, turn here, we’ll get there faster!” - or pissing my money away on moderate-ticket items, such as a video camera, that turn out to be both completely useless and totally nonrefundable…I INVARIABLY end up with a piece of shit.  Just to further illustrate, if two roads diverged in a wood, I - I would take the one less traveled by…and later, when I awoke at the bottom of a craggy but shallow ravine, I would realize with the clarity of hindsight exactly why it is that this is, in fact, the road less traveled.

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That being said, I will say that the craggy and most CERTAINLY shallow ravine giving me the most dyspepsia at this point is our so-called “publicist.”  I put the word in quotes because I specifically wanted to make a mockery of the true meaning of publicist - as in, ONE WHO PUBLICIZES - much in the same way that said publicist has made a mockery of publicizing our events.  I have endured her condescending, self-congratulatory demeanor for some time now, but the very last straw snapped my spine with an audible crack just last night.  It seems that not only was she not PUBLICIZING our booksigning event from November, she was deliberately NOT TELLING people who SPECIFICALLY ASKED for the information.  Doesn’t that completely fly in the face of exactly what a publicist is supposed to do?

Now, let’s touch base on the irretrievable shitstorm that WAS the booksigning.  I suppose it’s entirely possible that in a previous post I spat out the broad strokes of it, but most of my writing is done with my eyes rolled back into my head and my hands tapping out messages from deep within the vast sea that is my brain, so I wouldn’t remember if I did mention it…so, just deal, bitches.  I arrived at the booksigning a few minutes late, feeling like a total sack of shit for being tardy to this wonderful cocktail party that was to be filled with like-minded professional types who supported local authors, all of whom were eagerly lined up waiting to buy a copy of our wonderful, beautiful epic collection of blood, sweat, and tears…what I found upon entering was Patrick standing next to a table with ONE CHAIR and a janky tablecloth in an otherwise EMPTY room.  ONE CHAIR…TWO AUTHORS AND THE PHOTO GUY…yeah, not gonna work.

Not only could publicist not be bothered to get us ENOUGH CHAIRS, but she also was completely unwilling to ask for comped sodas for the FUCKING AUTHORS…she was too busy waiting on her precious plate of FREE NACHOS for her and her friends to even TRY to get us drinks.  Let me repeat that…SHE got free NACHOS, WE got free DICK.  Oh, and did I mention that they scheduled a FUNDRAISER on the same night as our FOR PROFIT VENTURE???  I’m beginning to think we aren’t being taken seriously…

Now, one would think that free drinks would have been the least she could have done, except that would have meant letting go of our coattails.  She gave away every single copy of the book that we gave her for promotional purposes to people who might be impressed that SHE knew US, while simultaneously NOT DOING A GODDAMN THING TO PROMOTE OUR BOOK.

I am telling you all right now that this shit stops today.  The free book factory has closed its doors, and it’s “suggested retail” city from this point moving forward.

HALLELUJAH.  HOLY SHIT.  Happy New Year.

The only time I enjoy seeing a person in a Santa hat is if they’re in a coffin at their own wake. That’s funny. And if it’s a child, it’s downright adorable. Take the hat off. You look like an ass, and more than a bit of a homosexual, to be honest with you.

That’s right. Santa’s gay.

I’m joking, kids. Santa’s not gay. How can he be? He doesn’t exist. Yes, son. Santa’s a fake. Just like the moon landing and the Holocaust.

How can we con our children into believing in Santa Claus in the Internet age? Surely, amid all the pornography they’re viewing, they’ll stumble upon some site telling them Kris Kringle ain’t real. We should bury Santa already.

Knock the Santa hat off their heads. I hate seeing an atheist in a Santa hat. Oh, you don’t believe in our Lord and Savior, but you’ll wear the hat of some fat, made up fruit. That’s beautiful.

You know what else I hate? Mexicans. Coming up here and stealing all our toys. Dirty, rotten Grincheros.

On a more serious note, I overheard a man at a grocery store chewing  the ear off of a woman working in the deli. He wanted to protest outside of Walgreen’s and Church’s because they were open on Christmas Day. He went on this Bill O’Reilly-type tirade about how it’s one day a year. Can’t they be closed for just one day?

But then, I thought, think of the little Jewish boy who needs his prescription filled…

“Why can’t I have my pills today, Mommy?”

“Because of the goyim, bubbala.”

“But I need my pills.”

“But Jesus was born today, boychick. Ergo, you will have to do without your medicine until tomorrow.”

“Can’t I even have some chicken?”

“No. Sorry. We Jews have to stay inside today. The Christians rule the world after all.”

“Oy vey! Can’t we start a war on Christmas?”

“We tried that, sweetie. But there are far too many meshuggina Culture Warriors who will fight us to the death. Now, go to sleep. Gay shlafen. Mazel tov.”

Even though another Christmas is over, let’s all enjoy some eggnog. I love the smell of eggnog in the morning.

Before there was an internet, you REALLY had to want your media news. If you wanted to know what the newest box office reports were, you had to really dig or watch hours of E! or Entertainment Tonight. You had to have your Entertainment Weekly and Variety subscriptions. You had to do the work to get the information. Then the internet came along and brought with it sites like the Internet Movie Database and Ain’t It Cool News. Suddenly all that information that you had to dig for was just there at your fingertips. It was glorious. Unfortunately, the internet brought something else along with it: Fucking Douchebags.

There are many different kinds of Fucking Douchebags tooling along the Information Superhighway but in a general sense, they tend to travel in the same lanes. In this case, the lanes in question are talkback and comment sections at the end of news and editorial pieces. Where before Fucking Douchebags had to be content with alienating customers at video stores and comic shops, suddenly they were given a voice to tell anyone who will read just what they think of upcoming media. And what they think of upcoming media is almost always that it will suck. It doesn’t matter what it is. It could be the coolest shit in the world, the Fucking Douchebags will have shit to talk about it.

Now, I say this as a writer who has spent a decent amount of time talking shit about media and things that pisses me off. Not all bitching is created equal and while a lot of things do suck, not everything does. Reading talkbacks on every story has no real mystery anymore as it will be a procession of ‘First!,’ ‘meh,’ *insert name of director* is going to screw it up,’ ‘Why can’t Hollywood come up with anything better than this shit?’ and occasionally ‘I could do this much better.’ I think that is the crux of the geek hate. Most of us think we are auteurs who have brilliant, singular vision that is wasted at retail jobs while hacks make bullshit movies about things we profess to love.

You see the same conversations over and over again on many talkbacks, and while I wish I could just not read them they tend to be like the worst of train wrecks, and I am talking about nasty ones that kill a lot of people in nasty ways. Or like Courtney Solomon’s Dungeons and Dragons. I can’t look away and not read the talkbacks and they just tend to make me angry. That being said, there is one phrase that I keep seeing around that REALLY annoys me. It is applied specifically to the myriad remakes announced every year: ‘They are raping my childhood.’

The first time I heard this was a couple of years ago when Transformers was announced. Of course people hated the Michael Bay choice, regardless of the fact that his movies gross enormous amounts of money and if people really thought he sucked so much they just wouldn’t go. People bitched and moaned about the choice, just like they all did when Bryan Singer was announced for X-Men, Sam Raimi for Spider-man, Christopher Nolan for Batman, Jon Favreau for Iron Man and pretty much anyone else ever announced for anything. People loved Lord of the Rings? Outrage when Peter Jackson was announced. But it wasn’t until Transformers that I started hearing people say shit like ‘Thanks for raping my childhood, Michael Bay!’

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It didn’t stop there, I’ve heard it in reference to GI Joe, Indiana Jones, retroactively about Star Wars, and many more. I swear to god I heard someone say it about the Chipmunks movie.

Most recently, I read it in reference to the upcoming Land of the Lost remake starring Will Ferrell and Danny McBride. The writer of said missive claims that Land of the Lost is being ruined by the obvious re-purposing of the property into a comedy. It is a fair enough criticism I suppose, particularly if the property in question weren’t a goofy blue screen dinosaurs and ridiculous make-up vehicle for Sid and Marty Kroft. Is anyone going to find the fucking Sleestack believable in some kind of hardcore drama? But, you know, fair enough if you loved it back then and you think the new movie is a terrible idea and is going in a terrible direction. But to say that your childhood is being raped because filmmakers realize that Marshall, Will and Holly are better served  by a tongue in cheek approach than a dramatic one is just completely asinine.

First of all, and I am guilty of this in the past as well, using rape as a quaint euphemism, particularly in terms of movies and TV, is really weak and disrespects those who have been raped. I am certain that what the average rape victim has gone through trumps your emotional scarring from Optimus Prime saying ‘My bad’ or having flames on his inappropriately elongated hood. I don’t want to be the sensitivity police, particularly on Up My Own Ass, but the choice of words is ridiculously dramatic and overwrought and pretty much makes you an asshole. Or a Fucking Douchebag if we want to keep up the continuity.

Second, and this really annoys me, if someone fucks up a property you loved when you were eight years old on the big screen, nothing has been done to your memories, your past nor the property itself. If you think Michael Bay fucked up the Transformers movie, don’t watch it and go back to the original show and the animated movie. They are all on DVD and readily accessible online. Trust me, they have not been altered or changed by Michael Bay. I will also submit that, as much as I love the Transformers with every ounce of my being, nothing in the old cartoons were anywhere near as badass as what was on display in the movie. I am sure that will earn me some bile in the comment section here, but it is what it is. In your heart of hearts you know it is true.

The point is that your childhood has not been, in any way at all, raped. You can always think back to when you played with your toys and watched the cartoons or whatever and have those pleasant memories. You can watch the old shows and jerk off to Cheetara (or Tigra if that is your thing) just like always. The evil Hollywood boogie monsters can never touch you in your secret place. Neither can most women either if you don’t move out of the basement, but that is neither here nor there.

Original source material is not ruined or tarnished by bad adaptations and just because such an adaptation is different it isn’t automatically inferior. When you adapt things to new mediums some things have to change. What works on the page doesn’t necessarily work on the big screen and what works when you are six doesn’t work when you are in your 30’s. And aside from that, the world doesn’t revolve around you.  If movies only made the money of hardcore fans, none of these properties would be brought to film at all. Maybe that could be considered a good thing but I think the world would be a much shittier place without the Dark Knight, Iron Man, Lord of the Rings, and so on. The point is that the movies can’t just be for the fans and some things just don’t translate.

A good example of how to look at this is Dave Gibbons’s take on the Watchmen movie. He said, and I am paraphrasing, that where the comic was satirizing super hero comics, the movie is satirizing comic book movies. That is a great take because it understands that at bottom the two things are different mediums and serve different masters. Occasionally you will get pure adaptations like 3oo and Sin City but those sort of lend themselves to direct translation more so than most other things.

At the end of the day, people who claim that their childhoods are being raped need to really put on their big boy pants and see about doing something about their adulthoods. If you are feeling real anguish like a part of you is dying because some adaptation of a cartoon you watched in elementary school is not living up to your expectations, then you have serious problems. If you then feel the need to spew all over a talkback or message board about it before the movie has even come out, then you are a Fucking Douchebag. Probably also a virgin but, again, that is neither here nor there.

In closing, I want to again reiterate that I am not saying it is bullshit to not like something or not care for an adaptation but keeping some fucking perspective is a good thing. I hated the Francis Ford Coppola Dracula (and Frankenstein for that matter) but it didn’t make me go home and strip down naked while I burned my copy of the Bram Stoker original. I still love the book and my enjoyment of it is not diminished. I think it is too bad that the movie sucked more than nipples shooting blood could ever afford but that is about as far as it goes. I didn’t have an internet to bitch about at that time though and maybe I would have. I was in high school, the age of which is roughly consistent with that type of behavior and sadly roughly the mentality of most Fucking Douchebags on the internet.  So that is that, I’ll see you in the talkbacks.

1. An Xbox system

2. A Barbie doll

3. For the crazy man that lives with us to stop molesting my sister and me

Next thing this pedo knew, the federales were at his door with tasers and billy clubs. So don’t you tell me there’s no Santa, you heathens. Claus saves lives! He runs through criminals like Brianna Broitzman through a nursing home.

In other unholy sex stories, and for those of you who may have thought that the publishing and film industries are complete horseshit, there’s a nine-year-old boy in Colorado who has apparently written a sex book. The book deal came from an essay the little fella wrote in school. I can remember when if someone wrote something good in school, maybe the teacher had him or her read it to the class.

Now there are book deals.

But that’s not all. This book, How To Talk To Girls, has been optioned for a film. Fucking Dr. Ruth never got a movie and she’s a German dwarf with a speech impediment! Who is this kid’s agent? And exactly who is going to read this book? Children don’t read unless it’s Harry Frigging Potter and only a pederast adult would even thumb through this crap.

Who besides Gary Glitter and busloads of NAMBLA members want to see a film about a nine-year-old love doctor? We gave

Hollywood Doogie Howser way back when. We can’t do it again. And who’s directing this epic? Roman Polanski? Woody Allen? The bike shop owner who touched Dudley in one of the many special episodes of Different Strokes?

Sources say chapter titles in How To Talk To Girls include “Cooties: Myth or Serious STD?”,”Fatty Arbuckle Her With a Baby Bottle,” and “How to Turn a Rape Scene Into a Clear Case of SIDS.”

And finally, Fran Drescher is the greatesr comedic actress in television history. Lucy, Mary Tyler Moore, and Wilma Flintstone can just fuck right off because Fran rules. And she would be the greatest senator since Harmon Killebrew.

You know what I miss about the Christmas of my youth?  The commercials.  I spent my childhood during the years before cable, and networks were deluged with commercials that evoked more holiday spirit than an entire rack of Hallmark cards.  It never felt like Christmas until I heard the first peal of those cheap, jangly Ronco bells merrily approximating “Deck the Halls” as the announcer confidently insisted that you purchase everything from the Veg-o-matic, to the Record Vacuum, to the Rhinestone Stud Setter (which I actually still have, although it technically belongs to my sister!)

Let’s not forget to mention the Glass Froster, the Smokeless Ashtray, the Inside-the-Eggshell Egg Scrambler, the Buttoneer, and the ubiquitous Mr. Microphone:

It wasn’t just Ronco that made interstitial holiday television as exciting as the Christmas programs.  McDonald’s had a market share of cuteness with the toddler-sized Corey Feldman sneaking down the stairs to give Santa his gift certificate, and Coca-Cola actually had a go at world peace with a choir of hippies singing and drinking Coke by candlelight:

And, for the absolute pinnacle of Christmas commercialism…the Norelco Santa:

I certainly hope you have enjoyed this trip down memory lane.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some sledding to do before I go play with my Holly Hobby Easybake Oven.

Not Assholes of the Week.

Governor Paterson, New York’s replacement for the hooker-loving Eliot Spitzer, said this week that he wants to start taxing everything from fat to sight to science, which was what blinded Paterson in the first place. It seems like the jump start to the insane tax tirade was Fred Armisen’s portrayal of Ole Dead Eyes on Saturday Night Live. The sketch rubbed one or more of the Gov’s handlers the wrong way.

But here’s my question: Has SNL ever before done a sketch that offended any of these people? Of course not. These selectively offended asses saw this sketch and thought - My stars! That’s our beloved Governor, the poor man who can’t see the sunset or a pretty flower. Something must be done to this Armisen fellow.

So you’ll never see this sketch again. Armisen will never do it again. Isn’t that a great solution?

The only thing that bugs me more than people who get offended by humor are people who get selectively offended by humor. Make a joke about blacks or Asians or Down syndrome and they laugh, laugh, laugh.

But start a joke with, “People with cleft palates…” and it’s, “Hey, my sister has a cleft palate and it’s very difficult for her. So don’t go there!”

ECCH!!! Shut up! Stop ruining everyone else’s fun. I’ll screw your monster of a sister right in the mouth.

The late comedy legend George Carlin said anything can be funny, even rape. “You don’t think rape can be funny?” he once asked. “Picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd.”

All right, enough of the stupid governor. To the next winner I ask - When does it stop?

I’ve long been for saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas, you Jew or secularist bastard.” I mean, who gives a shit? Santa was invented to say “Screw you” to Christ in the first place. But every frigging year some parent, some attention whore, needs to spread his or her stupid, angry non-believing cheer to everyone else.

Some Carolina woman is bitching about her little angels being subjected to the song “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” because of the “religious overtones” in the tune.

What religious overtones, you stupid hole? The part where all the other reindeer nail Rudolph to a cross? The part where Santa takes seven toys and makes a whole village eat them?

What do these folks do when a real religious Christmas song is played somewhere? If Rudolph makes them call the school, “The First Noel” must drive them fucking Columbine. Someone has to stand up and say, “Go fuck yourself, you needy little douche and take your kid out of public school.”

At a school in Wisconsin, they’re singing “Silent Night, Cold in the Night.” Good Lord, why not write ABC and tell them to stop showing the Peanuts Christmas specials? I heard “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” the other night and said, “Shit, they’re gonna get some e-mails about this cartoon.”

When did Jesus become the bad guy? If you don’t want your kid in a play with words like “holy” and “Christmas” mentioned, stay home and watch a stupid Law & Order rerun. Find a private school for your precious children.

By the way, Santa and reindeer? They don’t exist, you crazy bitch! You’re complaining about made up shit!

If this isn’t enough, a group of atheists in Washington have created their own little anti-religious Christmas symbols and are even calling on us to celebrate Festivus.

That’s from a sitcom, you simple bastards! Why not just start worshiping Bobby Wheeler from Taxi?

And when did atheists start protesting? Back in the good ole days it was enough to just not believe. Now they’re like the anti-abortionists or the peacenicks.

Saying “Happy Holidays” and including a menorah in a display is one thing, but to screw with every part of the holidays is babyish. If you don’t want to sing the frigging song, or say the Pledge, for fuck’s sake, fine. Go hide out in the bathroom for 60 seconds. But don’t spread your shit around and screw up my kid’s Christmas, you entitled piece of shit.

God bless us, every one.

They said you can get worms in your brain on the last episode I watched, just from eating undercooked bad pork. I thought it was artistic shitty same-plotline-every-episode shenanigans to keep things interesting, but look what I just found. Look.

Just look.

I’ve been playing video games since I was a kid, back in the 80’s heyday of the arcades. I played them as much as I could and after having the knock-off specialist Texas Instruments system during those days, I have gone out of my way to own the systems that I want. After the N64 came out and had one good game a year, I made sure that I had all the major systems so I could play whatever I wanted when I wanted. I was dedicated too. From hustling Street Fighter 2 and 3 in the arcade to having all night Resident Evil sessions with my friends, I have been playing for a long time.  People have asked me, particularly former in-laws, why I play. I generally go with an answer that has something to do with escapism and then am forced into a long winded treatise on how, while I love movies and I read all the time, games are nice because of the level of interactivity. There are no movies scarier than playing through Silent Hill 2 for instance.  And that is true, I like being able to play games where I am some bad-ass hero who gets to fight monsters, zombies, aliens, gangsters, and Jack Thompson and forget for a second that there are aspects of my life that drip with loser juice. There are people out there who would suggest that those aspects have to do with playing games in the first place and to those people I say ‘Go Fuck Yourself.’ Unfortunately, however, as game technology becomes more advanced so too does the game play and you get games that are more realistic. That isn’t bad in and of itself, but sometimes the games get too realistic.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself alone on a Saturday night ( I will pause for the gasping to die down. Done? Ok.) and I decided to spend my time with Fable II. Fable II is what is referred to as an Open World game, meaning you can pretty much do whatever you want whenever you want. As it happened, on this particular night I wanted to get my character laid. Now the game lets you do this, there is no graphic sex depicted but the screen goes black and you hear some sex noises. It isn’t really all that exciting but I wanted to see if I could get the ‘Swinger’ achievement for having an orgy.

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So with that plan in mind, I put my quest to save the world and ruin the forces of evil’s shit on hold to try and sort out some strange.  It was sort of like the guys who declare they are going to go out for some pussy when they have the social acumen of canned tuna, which by the way is the closest most of them get to real life vag. I should know, we can smell our own… kind, not vaginas. Anyway, I went into the town square to attempt my courting and I set off a horrifying chain of events that made me put down my controller and stand in the shower for a half an hour.

So it started off with me dancing a bit, and just doing the sorts of gestures the game has available to make people like you and fall in love with you. This includes blowing kisses, whistling, doing a sock puppet show, showing off my muscles and asking them to follow me. I decided to forgo the farting expression because while you can make them laugh with you, there is also the risk of shitting your pants at which point they will be laughing at you. So I did my thing, laid my game down as it were and the women were interested. They were falling in love and sounded like they were trying to get up on my virtual pants-business. So far so good. According to the strategy guide, the instruction booklet, and the advice of friends, the next move is to get them to follow you to bed. Then you activate the bed and activate her G-spot… just like real life. What happened was that I accidentally got married, had to buy a house with half of my new sword money, get ragged on by my new wife about where we lived, my appearance, and how much money I was giving her every day. Then, after finally managing to fuck her, she got pregnant and I had a kid.

Holy fucking shit.

I am all for realism in games but this hits a bit close to home. I have to believe that for the majority of gamers out there  not being able to get laid on a Saturday night is exactly the sort of reality they are trying to escape from when they jump into games. To see my high school and college years reproduced for me in a magical fairy land was depressing. To see my 20’s and early 30’s play out afterward was straight up scary. I don’t need a bad relationship simulator. All I need for that is to close my eyes and search my memories. My past relationships have been bigger train wrecks than the Bush administration and my self confidence is more damaged than the current economy.

Now, I should note that the realism died down a bit when my virtual wife started giving me presents and didn’t divorce me after going off on a mission for 10 years at great personal effort and risk. But she DID bitch about the house and why she didn’t have better furniture. Also she felt my hair was too long and looked ridiculous.

I did eventually figure out the sex mechanic, which requires a thumbs up when you get to the bedroom or using the ‘come back to my place’ expression and much hi-jinks ensued. There is any amount of debauchery available up to and including the ability of your buddy coming in on an online LIVE game to join in on sex with your wife and he can get her pregnant. And that is just not very thoughtful since that bastard should have used a condom.

Once the mechanic is mastered, it can lead to the sort of escapism that makes the player feel like a pimp, but when things like joint bank accounts, childbirth and shew-harpy like behavior is on the line, I think maybe those features should be left on the drawing board. I don’t care for having to worry about what my family is doing while I am killing skeletons and pirates and I don’t care for watching my money get sucked away for said family’s upkeep. There are things in life I just don’t want to worry about in the virtual space and marriage and kids are two of them. STDs are another and I didn’t appreciate the seven of them I got from group sex with hookers.

How am I supposed to focus on fighting douche bags when I am worried my dude has syphilis?

Check out these cars trying to make it up an icy hill on this time-lapse video. Yay for living in Arizona and not having to deal with this crap!

Oh, you may have thought she vanished into the entertainment abyss after her Hulk Hogan/Ernest Goes to Camp/any recent National Lampoon film-level farce Beautician and the Beast, but you, my friend (Kiss me) should be so lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky. You should be so lucky in love.

Like Sweet Caroline, Drescher heard from some tool Governor in Illinois that you can but Senate seats like you can buy votes or a white baby. So she too wants Hilary’s New York Senate seat, which was vacated because President-elect Obama wants to keep his enemies close.

This sets quite a precedent. Soon Balki, Urkel and Mr Belvedere will want to be senators too. We can even put Screech, Webster and Alf in Congress, for Pete’s sake. The House and Senate can both look like the TV Land Awards.

But, truthfully, we’ve been there, done that, worn the T-shirt, stained the T-shirt with hooker blood, buried the hooker, and…uh…yeah.

We’ve already had Gary Coleman run for Governor of California, and Gopher from The Love Boat was a Congressman for years. Or maybe that was Scooter from The Muppets. But then there was Sonny Bono, singer/mayor/really bad skier.

Where does it end?

Somewhere in Heaven Freddie Prinze, Dana Plato and Karen Carpenter are running for office. But up there, Lincoln will stop them. Who will stop entertainers here on Earth?

Arnold Schwarzenegger could lead to Dolph Lundgren and Brian Bosworth.

Al Franken could lead to Emo Phillips and The Amazing Jonathan.

Jessa Ventura could lead to King Kong Bundy and “Exotic” Adrian Street.

All we need is Drescher using the Senate as a springboard to the White House. Luckily, this broad has a better chance at building a time machine and traveling to  pre-1960 to try out at shortstop for the Washington Senators than actually ever sitting next to Chuck Schumer.

We recently received this user-contributed story from Paul and with his permission wanted to share it with everyone. It seems Katie’s original “Are T.A.P.S. full of S.H.I.T?” got a lot of people talking about the paranormal and ghost hunting in general.

This story is Paul’s own experience into the paranormal, give it a read:

Story

Investigation Year: 1999

Private home Massachusetts, A 62 year old women claims to be contacting a dead female spirit using a Ouija board. The spirit has identified herself as Doris

I received a call from a very good friend who stated there is a lady in The Boston area who can receive messages from a spirit using a Quija board. I rolled my eyes and told him Ouija boards are manipulated using the ideomotor effect. I couldn’t understand why he believed such nonsense could or should be connected to activity. He laughed and told me the lady’s brother contacted him and said he was convinced his sister is genuine and she is being contacted by a spirit . I asked him if she claimed to be a or if she claimed to have any psychic ability. He already asked these questions and was told she did not display any special powers or unusual behavior until she purchased a Ouija board. At this point I have no idea why I’ am still having this conversation .” Even worse” why he bothered to call me. I said I was not interested in investigating something he and I can explain and duplicate. I ended my conversation thinking that was the end of it.

A few days later he called me back. He was excited and said you have to see this. I said see what, “he blurts out”, the Ouija board lady. He said you would not believe the demonstration I witnessed. He related the following story.

I went to the client’s house with the lady’s brother; I asked her if it was possible to communicate with the spirit in my presence. She said she would try and proceeded to get the Ouija board. She sat down and placed the board on her lap. She then asked if the spirit was present. Within moments the planchette moved to yes. She then asked the name of the spirit. The spirit complied and spelled out the name Doris. More questions were asked and the spirit answered them all. No questions were asked by the investigator.

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So I inquired about his tone of excitement and said nothing unusual about what he just related. He then said, it was the speed of the planchette moving on the board. “His direct quote was”. The indicator spelled out answers faster then an experienced typist. I paused and tried to imagine what I just heard. Now he has my attention. But I am not convinced she is communicating with a spirit or a phenomenon I couldn’t explain. A Ouija board can be purchased at Wal-Mart for a few dollars. It’s a toy right. “OR IS IT”

He made an appointment for another demonstration. We brought two recorders and a list of well prepared questions. I asked her would the spirit respond if I asked all the questions. She didn’t seem to think that would be a problem. She agreed and seemed to be excited about the idea of a video. She asked for a copy when we finished.

The first was set up for a complete frontal view capturing her hands and face. The second camera was at a slight right angle directed more on the hands and board.

Would the spirit communicate with camera’s rolling? We all know how ghost’s appear to be camera shy. I won’t list all the questions asked, and answered. I will explain what happened. Remember I asked all the questions. And I examined the board and planchette.

As soon as I asked a question the planchette immediately went to spell out the answer. I can only relate the speed at which they were answered .Nothing less then remarkable. The speed of a laser presentation pointer. I’m holding a pad of paper and pencil and I can’t record the answers.That’s how fast the planchette is moving across the board.

I stop the questions. The cameras are still rolling. I asked her if she could communicate with the spirit using a different Ouija board. I had purchased one and left it in the car. She had a puzzled look on her face. She agreed to give it a try. With a new board. I asked if the spirit was in the room. Long pause, planchette does not move. The question was again repeated. No response, I asked if she thought the spirit had left. She said she didn’t know. I asked if she wanted to continue using her board. She said she would try.

I had one more request . I asked her if she was truly communicating with a spirit could she get the same results BLIND FOLDED. To my surprise she agreed and said she did not think this would be a problem. Now I’m thinking. (Game Over)

Doris are you still here. Planchette moves, answer yes, I quickly ask another question. Planchette spells out the correct answer. I notice this time I can keep up with the planchette and record on paper what is being spelled out. A total of 12 questions were answered and all spelled out correctly. The only difference being the speed was noticeably much slower.

Was the Ouija really communicating with a spirit? How could we explain the speed at which the answers were given. How could she do this blind folded and spell out the answers correctly. Was the spirit guiding her. Does she possess a gift. Is this a classic case of unexplainable phenomenon. Can we really communicate with a spirit with an object purchased at Wal-Mart.

Personal Thoughts

I will admit this was an experience and one I will not forget, to say the least it was amusing and entertaining and she had me thinking about how she was doing this. I watched the video several times. I made my own conclusions. The obvious question, was she peeking through the blind fold. I can only say I’ am confident she was not. So how did this remarkable lady do this. I knew it was a trick but like most tricks I don’t know how they are performed. If it is a trick, how was it done?

Practice, and more practice. She displayed the best hand eye coordination and thought process I have ever seen. I can honestly say she can be compared to a well trained Marine who can assemble his weapon quicker then you can say Marine. A combat trained Marine can assemble his weapon in pitch black conditions with a slightly slower pace. I would suggest the Ouija lady would have made a very good Marine.

My explanation is she memorized the board.

Does this explanation seem likely? Did she really take the time to memorize the lay out of the Ouija board? How many hours of practice did it take to master this incredible mystifying illusion, what would be her reason. Did I prove it can not only be done but duplicated? I did except my explanation as plausible for the simple reason. When blind folded the speed of the planchette was noticeable slower She appeared to be thinking instead of reacting. We can all type and spell with out looking at the key board, so with practice we should be able to push a triangle shaped object to spell out words.
Background

Doris the spirit: Was Doris Larkin, she died in 1923 at the age of 27 believed to live in The Massachusetts area. How she died was not clear. Possible accident. Spirit could not remember. A history search proved negative. No information on Doris was ever confirmed.

One more note.. Did I waste my time with nonsense? NO, I loved the experience and would do it again. After all, it beats sitting in a dark house all night waiting for reported objects to be hurled into the air.

Final Note

Why did she do it? She lived alone and had very little company.

At the risk of dating myself, my 20 year high school reunion is already in the planning stages for next fall.  In fact, I was about the only date I could get back in high school - hell, I didn’t even get asked to PROM, for crissakes - but that’s just one of myriad uncomfortable memories that I hold dear to my heart.  There is already a Facebook group trying to hash out all the plans…where do we wanna go…maybe a club, maybe a formal dinner?  Not surprisingly, those delightful gals are even only half-joking when they say, “Let’s have a kegger in the desert, just like the old days!”

Oh, you mean the keggers where you all drank yourselves sick, spread your legs wide open, and let every member of the football team (and, in some cases, the girls softball team) lick you until you were swollen and bald?  Ah, yes…memories.

I was the Daria of my graduating class.  I talked like her, I acted like her, and I even looked like her with my long brown hair and big, round glasses.  I definitely had, and still have, her “go fuck your mother” attitude, ESPECIALLY when it comes to a number of my old school chums.  No…I literally mean CHUM, as in “fish refuse.”  There were so many dirty girls, that it smelled like a fish cannery, but I digress.

I had a difficult time fitting in.  I think, deep down, I wanted to be popular, but not at the expense of my individuality and biting sarcasm.  Back then, I didn’t realize that there was a difference between “popular” and “well-liked.”

I even struck social gold by making it onto the cheerleading squad, but I still couldn’t manage to gain any favor with the “it” girls.  I think that may have made them hate me MORE.  I suppose I was only in it for the shiny pompoms.  OH, and the tangible and searing contempt from all the girls that tried out, were sure they were shoe-ins, and then gasped in slack-jawed disbelief when MY name was called for the final cut and they were thanked for their time.  Oh yeah, THOSE are the memories that warm the cockles of MY heart.

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When I was in high school, I was one of the pseudo-goth kids of my time.  Back then, we were “new wavers.”  I was very much “new wave” with my berets and long skirts and china flats (or Chuck Taylor’s - when they were STILL made in the U.S.)…I also dug out my dad’s old trench coat and wore that from time to time (even though it WREAKED of Chesterfields).  I had the Pat Benatar haircut for a while.  I listened to Depeche Mode, New Order, The Cure, Erasure…and Yaz.  I loved Yaz - the band, NOT that retarded birth control.  In fact, the dance routine that we performed at cheer leading tryouts was to a Yaz song…you know, the year that I MADE THE SQUAD AND YOU BITCHES DIDN’T?

Gosh, did I just type that out loud?

I thought I was looking forward to my reunion, but I now believe the jury is still out on that decision.  On one hand, I am going back as the published author of now TWO books (second one being released this February, but advance copy is IN HAND!).  I will, so help me GOD, be 40 pounds thinner, and I certainly won’t look old enough to have a son attending the very high school from which we graduated (although, after running into my old English teacher, I hear the school is an abysmal, directionless, shit vacuum and I am not sure I want my son to go, AT ALL, but we’ll see…).

On the OTHER hand, these were not the people that I CHOSE to be around for four years of my life.  It was just by happenstance that we all got thrown into a steaming vat of social gumbo and had to sort it out amongst ourselves.  I stayed on the fringes…friends with some of the popular kids, but not the right kind of “cool” to get invited to any parties.  My dancing and grades got me on the cheerleading squad, but my presence went so unnoticed that my name didn’t even get included into the squad’s secret Santa drawing…and this was after months of practices and games.  Like an asshole, I bought presents for someone, but I didn’t get so much as a pack of gum.  Turns out someone ELSE was buying for that bitch, too, and so she got twice as many gifts.  On the last day, everyone finally noticed what happened and she tried to give me a pity gift, but I didn’t take it.  In retrospect, I have to believe that was done on purpose because it’s much harder to reconcile yourself to the fact that you don’t exist in their world, rather than just being universally hated.  At least hate is an emotion.

Don’t get me wrong.  I do have friends from high school…the best ones are there for every holiday, birthday, and venting session.  They will give me a ride to work if I need it.  They will buy my books without even being prompted.  They are cool in a way that most people never could be, even if they spent years trying.  Nevertheless, there is still something very visceral about my desire to tell all those horrid bitches to go fuck themselves, and to MAKE SURE THEY HEAR IT.

Just to clarify…as I have stated before, I don’t hold grudges, I am just a documentarian and a scorekeeper.

I cannot be the only person in the world that really does keep track.  I may be the only one with enough balls to ADMIT it, but I guarantee that everyone has their own “list.”  Everybody says that they don’t care what people think, but this isn’t about what other people think.  This is about retroactive accountability.  This is seizing the opportunity to realize it is MY turn to make a few people feel stupid, worthless, and insignificant in the shadow of my personal and professional success, popularity, and wealth.

This is about reminding them that high school really was, and will always have been, the best years of their lives.

I’ve gone to a particular message board for several years now and we do optional secret Santa and Christmas card exchanges annually. I usually don’t take part in the card exchange but this year I decided what the hell. I looked around for a card I could send to the 20 people on the list that was different and quirky and pretty much the anti-thesis of the typical heart-warming bullshit people typically send out. I love cats, for instance,  but I really can’t send out a card that has a kitten in a Christmas stocking without wanting to kick my own ass. So I was looking around for something that wouldn’t make me vomit and subsequently hate myself. After coming up empty in stores and not having time to order any of the bad ass ‘zombies attacking Santa Claus (found at tinaseamonster.etsy.com), I decided to draw my own cards using the characters from my web cartoon which people at the message board have read.

Sounded like a cheap and more personal way to go.

I drew and colored the card on 11 X 14 and took it down to FedEx Kinko’s to have it copied. Before I go on, I have to reiterate that I am not, generally speaking, a fucking idiot. I wandered over to the self-service machines and looked it over. As I stood there punching buttons, it occurred to me that I should probably go to the help kiosk and ask how much 20 11 x 17 color copies would be. It also occurred to me that I should probably go ahead and print out a test copy to make sure the cards didn’t come out looking like warmed over shit. What I did, however, was put my debit card into the machine, punch up 20 copies, and watched as I was charged $38.50 for the copies. It was kind of like when you would try to fill your car up this past summer and stood there and watched the pump rape you like you were a drunken co-ed during spring break.  As the number got higher and higher, I felt more and more blood drain from my face until I must have looked like Edward from Twilight if he were in his early 30’s and not sexually attractive. And also if he looked straight.

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Now, maybe I would have felt OK about the price if the copies looked good and people might be impressed or appreciative of the work. As it turns out, and this is where a test copy would have been helpful, the copies looked fairly shoddy. They didn’t look horrible really, just generally substandard. At that point, whatever color was left in my face went the way of the dodo and I started trying to hatch an elaborate plot to get my money refunded and the copies destroyed. I don’t believe that Kinko’s has any sort of ‘I am a ridiculous dumb ass who is lucky to have dressed himself and gotten down here’ policy so I resigned myself to the fact that getting Forgetting Sarah Marshall on Blu-ray was going to have to wait.

When I was looking for envelopes in which to send these fucking travesties, I came across a bundle of not so horrible Christmas cards for the low price of $7.99. I wanted to shoot myself. On the plus side, I found a bundle of envelopes for a dollar and decided to look at that as the palest of silver linings. While I stood in line at the post office to send a package and buy stamps, I wasn’t even bothered by the 30 minute wait only because the circus that my insides were doing was keeping me entertained. By the time I left the post office, I had reduced the $59 in my bank account to $7 and was looking at a lot of ramen in my future.

Later in the day, I took a friend to the post office to deliver some of her packages, the postage of which was less than she expected. And she said so, “that was less than I expected.” It must be fucking nice. I wish I could somehow blame Kinko’s for gouging me or some how wrenching my hard earned dollars away through guile and chicanery, but what it all comes down to is that I just flat fucked up. I don’t know why I didn’t follow my own advice and do what any reasonable adult would do, but I didn’t. In the absence of any logical explanation other than me being complete fucking idiot, which as one might imagine is in my best interest to find, I am going to blame Fallout 3. If it hadn’t been so good, I might have gotten some sleep and I could be watching Mila Kunis in a bikini right now.

Fuckers.

Because if it were, we’d be fucked.

Christmas brings out the absolute WORST in people.  I was reading an article about how the atheists are under the bus now because of their “just be good for goodness’ sake” campaign.  Of course, they preface it with “why be Godly?”  So, it’s fairly antagonistic, but still…the point is BE GOOD just to BE GOOD.

So, now, the hypochristians are ALL SPUN UP, just like they always get because they are the poor, poor martyrs of the world, carrying the burden of the cross in between hating gay people and banning Disney movies.  I guess they are pissed because you can’t be GOOD without acknowledging that good can only be determined by GOD.  I don’t think we are talking about not coveting thy neighbor’s wife.  Let us all rise now for a reading from the book of COMMON COURTESY…

Being good for goodness’ sake is a valid message, whether or not you believe in God…which I DO, just to set the record straight.  In fact, being good for goodness’ sake means doing it for the right reasons and not because the mighty smiter could snuff you out with the pinch of his fingers.  That’s just like those workplace glory-hounds that only do a good job when the boss is watching, and then slack when they think it’s safe.

I don’t even know how the hypochristians even noticed these ads…seems to me they would have been too busy staging their annual attempt to ass-out all the Jews of the world by banning stores that say “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.”  There is nothi