Your Headlines for Monday February 8

Entertainment
Dear John replaces Avatar atop the Box Office charts, proving once and for all women are responsible for everything that's terrible in entertainment. I think its their emotions, which they totally can't control. I blame their vaginas.










Sports
Football game played in South Miami last night. NFL buys rights to the word 'Super' (and because contractually we can not mention the next word within twelve words) 'Bowl,' in (and again contractually we can't legally mention the city in which it is played in with in a certain word limit) 'Miami.' However, this is notable because Kendra Wilkenson left the stadium looking like this because her husband basically lost the game for the Colts. Which is remarkable because he only played one play. Hats off, Hank. (Is she wearing a colts snuggie underneath? If so, awesome.)










Internet
Right Wing Blogger sets record for fastest off-color John Murtha comment. 29 seconds after death, updates his blog that congressman "won't be clambering for damned government doctors anymore."

Nut-Punch of the Week, Feb 1st-5th, '10

As we've discussed previously, the Nut-Punch is a figurative injury. A symbolic assault. And, being as it's about the furthest thing from an actual injury to the gonads imaginable, it's also incidental whether the target in question even has literal testes to begin with. Which becomes important to remember, especially in light of certain current events.

And it is in that spirit of equality for all (even when it comes to doling out nugget-knocks) that this week's nut-punch goes to none other than that Yukon Yokel herself. The Quitter-in-Chief. Herr'oner the Harlot.

Sarah Palin.

I'd ask her to step up to the lectern to accept, but I don't have time to give her a road map, and turn-by-turn directions.

Look, there's no longer any doubt that she's stupid. The debate over her glaringly-obvious lack of anything resembling a functional intellectual capacity was put to rest a long time ago. Whether citing the facts about her that were made apparent during the '08 presidential campaign (She doesn't read newspapers, is unclear on the role of the Vice President, and cites policies of governmental agencies that don't exist), or the stuff that's come out since the McCain/Palin ticket's defeat (she can't name her favorite founding father, quits her single term as governor 18 months shy, and doesn't know that Africa is a continent), any questions about her wattage have been answered dozens of times over. She's so fucking dim, she makes Dan Quayle look like a card-carrying Mensan. Yessiree, if there's any one thing Sarah Palin is good at, it's being a laughingstock dumbass.

At least, I thought she was good at it.

Nope. Not even THAT much.

Recently, Palin was invited to address a Teabagger's convention in order to speak to the morons who blame the current economic crisis on the guy who got it dumped on him. While there, she agreed to participate in a short Q&A with the audience. And, because she is a fucking flaming nitwit, she insisted that the questions be submitted in advance. Understandable, I suppose. Like most, I saw the V.P. debate, and the Couric interviews during the campaign. And when Sarah doesn't get the test questions in advance, she tends to choke harder than she would if there were actual testicles in her mouth.

So far, whatever. Garden-variety ass-covering bullshit from a proven imbecile. Nothing we didn't expect. But it's what happened during the actual Q&A that really launches her to new depths of "duuuuh." Because even lunk-headed dipshits who need crib notes to pass a test know not to keep them where anyone will see them, and to not make it obvious that you're cheating when you look at 'em. But no...not Sarah Palin.

Watch:



Wow. Just...Wow. It's one thing to be an abject, irredeemable bonehead. It's entirely another to be so motherfucking OBVIOUS about it. She's not even good at being stupid!

As if her hit-you-over-the-head obvious super-sneaky palm-peek wasn't enough, it seems she forgot her notes were in there while she was giving a speech at a different time. Several times, she gestured to the audience with her palms out, revealing her cheat sheet!

Whoopsie. Shouldn't have done that, huh?

And what makes this even funnier is the fact that during the speech in question, she actually criticized President Obama's use of a teleprompter! You could cut the irony with a rusty spoon. At least he (like most presidents before him since the invention of the bloody thing) uses the 'prompter to give speeches of consequence and detail. For the love of Christ, you had to write party tentpoles like "Energy," "taxes" and "lift America's spirits" on your hand to remember to mention them?!? That'd be like if Obama had to scribble crap like "health care," "job creation" and "D.A.D.T. go bye-bye" on the underside of his tie before the State of the Union Address!

Y'know, it's sad...Palin recently announced that she "isn't ruling out" a bid for the presidency come 2012. But given the fact that she's so goddamned stupid that she even sucks at BEING stupid, I simply cannot imagine how she thinks she has even the faintest glimmer of being taken seriously as a candidate.

That said, as a humorist...I hope she runs. We could use the material.

This Day in History

1922
President Warren G. Harding had a radio installed in the White House. Harding took an instant liking to the fledgling new medium, never missing an episode of his favorite program - The Texaco Theater's Happy Mammy Minstrel Hour

1993
General Motors sued NBC, alleging that the program "Dateline NBC" had rigged tests to show that GM trucks were prone to fires. On the bright side for NBC, Stone Phillips went on to win an Emmy for best stunt choreography in a weekly news magazine report:

I've just about had it with those fucks at Cracked.com.

Ed. Note: We disabled comments for this because the same "anonymous" trolls (yeah, morons, anyone can figure out your IPs are the same) spent most of their early morning trying to sound like 20 different people who agreed with Cracked...none of whom could spell. Way to dispel the notion that Cracked readers are tools, folks! We're not sure what's more pathetic...A HUGE website that probably makes in a month what we sorry bastards do in a year being concerned with us, or the fact that it may just be two of their fans?! I mean...if we keep poaching ideas off little blogs, does that mean we get our own cadre of douchebags to white-knight'ingly defend our honor someday? 'Cause really, that's all we're really working for anyway.

Hey, Cracked?

Yeah, you.

Yes...YOU guys, who tanked at being the poor man's Mad Magazine, then tanked at being the poor man's Maxim, and are currently tanking on what can only be described as a SHERMAN level at being the bankrupt homeless guy's CollegeHumor.com. I know you can hear me. And I have a message for you:

Lick my hairy, musty taint, you crassholes. You are fucking DEAD to me.

"Is it too late to start running?"

It wasn't always this way. I used to be okay with you. I really did. And, you probably won't remember this, but you used to be pretty okay with me, too. Quite awhile ago, I decided I was going to try to write for you. And this was LONG before you opened up your front page to any Tom, Dick or Dickless with enough electrical activity in their limbic system to twitch individual keyboard buttons in something like a recognizable sequence.

"i EM MakIn a crakt TOPEX pagez LOL"

A few years back, I was a regular commenter in your article threads. And within a few weeks of signing up, you guys had noticed. I know this, because you used to quote me in quite a few of your week-end wrap-ups. You even called me a "super-poster" once. Right here, actually. As a matter of fact, you liked my comments so much that riiiiight over here, you singled out ANOTHER one as your number #7 funniest reader comment of 2007!

Yesiree, I figured I was maneuvering myself into a pretty good position to make a solid bid for staff membership...Keeping it low-key, making with the chuckles, and establishing a presence. So, I readied my application letter, and figured I'd fire it off within a few days of being singled out for that little nod of year-end recognition.

Then, all at once, you sold out.

Or, more factually, you joined forces with a FAR lower-rent "humor" site. I don't remember which one. I think it was called, "Meaningless Squandering of Valuable Daylight" or some such bullshit. I'm still not sure how it all went down, exactly. All I remember is that literally overnight, your site comments went from reasonably-funny stuff from a handful of mostly-smart posters, to little more than misspelled slurs from a cesspool of sub-eBaum's World mongoloids who made the average YouTube commenter look like a Nobel laureate.

"Sometimes...I wear MITTENS."

Needless to say, I was disappointed. Not only would any comments I made from that point on be more or less immediately shunted off of the bottom of the screen and lost, buried 'neath a miasma of mediocrity, but I no longer had much interest in writing for a site so thoroughly overrun by gormless, window-licking CHUDs. So, I slunk away defeated with my tail between my legs, and left Cracked's comments threads to the spambots, the flamer trolls, and the 12-year-olds who think that they have to say "nigger," "faggot," or "bitch" every eleven seconds or their parents will die.

For weeks I wandered the cyber-wastes, looking for a new spigot of ha-ha's to call home. A fresh venue to ply my trade. And that's when I found the magnificent Diary of Fools. When I rapped on the front door with the last of my strength, begging for alms in a creaky, dust-dry voice, no less than Blaine Fridley himself answered the door. He saw my pathetic, withered frame, and took me in. He cradled me in his manly arms, and nursed me back to health by suckling me on HIS OWN NIPPLES, tenderly building my strength until I was ready to take my first fledgling steps into trying to be funny again. And I will NEVER forget his generosity. Since that day, the Diary has been my home.

[Ed. - I'm not proud of it. But it was the right thing to do.]

Sure, our audience is smaller. Sure, we're not rolling in whores and nose candy. And sure, we couldn't get a link posted on Digg if I grabbed Kevin Rose's balls and squeezed until he agreed. But fuck it...at least I can SLEEP at night. I'm PROUD of our content and our audience. And I'm sure as hell not debasing myself writing articles like "The Top Seven Vegetables That Alter The Smell of your Pee (hint: five-and-a-half of them are asparagus LOL)."

Though it all, though, I've kept an eye on you. I've held my chin up and worked hard on crafting good, solid funny with MY crew, even as I've watched you tossers rise to prominence on the backs of endless "Top X" lists, sub-Fark photoshop contests, and hack scribbling so cringe-inducing, the "Hollywood Squares" writers would boo you out of the room.

But lately, you fucking fart-sucking ass-nuggets have really started to piss me off.

"Uh-ohhhhh."

It all started in earnest a few months ago, when we here at the Diary decided to start speckling our banter with some original video shorts. We got together, brainstormed, and came up with what we thought were a few pretty funny ideas. After that, the wheels turned pretty fast. One of our valuable contributors (Knarf Black XIV) is a talented professional videographer, so we busted out the lights and camera, and got down to some totally-chaste, completely-platonic, fully-clothed man-on-man action.

The resultant short, called "Would You Fuck Your Own Clone?", was a valiant first effort. We spent quite a bit of time on what we felt was a good script. Dig some of the lines:

MERTON Assuming that the end result of the whole clone thing is bound to be spare parts and slave labor, it stands to reason that clones wouldn't have any real human rights, per se. So you could pretty much fuck the shit out of your own clone, and there's not much anyone could really say about it. BLAINE Wait...Fuck your OWN clone? MERTON Yeah. BLAINE As in, a human copy of yourself. MERTON I'm pretty sure that's what they mean by "clone." BLAINE I think I've officially moved past "confused" into a whole new category. MERTON Tell me you wouldn't fuck your own clone. BLAINE No. Just...No. MERTON Really? Why not? BLAINE Well, for starters, I'm not gay. And if I was, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be into dudes who looked like ME. MERTON Who said anything about "gay?" BLAINE Well, clone or not...A guy is a guy. And I don't have sex with guys. Sorry to disappoint you. MERTON I'm not into guys, either. But fucking your clone wouldn't be like actually fucking another guy. It'd pretty much just be a hyper-meta form of masturbation. It is basically YOU after all. BLAINE Yes. Me. A.K.A.: A GUY. MERTON A guy who knows EXACTLY what you like!

We touched on a lot of relevant themes, mostly revolving around the opinion that you could have sex with your own clone, and it wouldn't be gay at all...more like the ultimate form of spankin' it. It was funny, it looked and sounded solid, and when we shot it, we were happy with it.

Unfortunately, when Knarf sat down to cut the footage together, the hard drive on his computer chose that precise moment to commit suicide.

"GOOD-BYE, CRUEL WORLD (abort, retry, fail?)."

So, yeah. Minor setback, that. But, he was eventually able to recover the footage by going back to the original tapes. Then, as soon as his new hard drive arrived, firmly attached to the shell of the narcoleptic tortoise that had been dispatched from Outer Mongolia to carry it to him across the molasses fields of Siberia, he got back on it.

Soon, we had a rough cut we could all be proud of. Knarf, Reno, Blaine and I even got together to watch it. At that point, we were mere days away from bringing our hot, fresh content to our twelve readers, and they were going to love it. And I'll never forget the date, either. It was November 19th, 2009.

And the reason I remember? Because this abortion showed up on Cracked the very. Next. Day:

Check out that view-count number in case you'd like to put a precise integer on my frustration.

What in the greasy purple Jesus-buttering FUCK?!?

Essentially, this nancy-boy "Daniel O'Brien" at Cracked put up an article that explored the identical concept, and he did it the DAY after we'd finished the video. And it wasn't just that the idea was the same...it was almost like he'd been hiding in the goddamned closet when we shot the motherfucker. In his pedestrian little essay, O'Brien ran down the list, and ticked off every single joke we had made in our video, more or less conceptually verbatim, and in practically the same sequence.

Needless to say, we were pretty put out. I mean, yeah...at the end of the day, maybe it wasn't the world's single most original concept (turns out that if you Google, "would you fuck your own clone," you get a lot of old hits), but nevertheless. The timing SUCKED. We had just wasted a few weeks meticulously piecing together what was to be our debut live-action "DoF-TV" post, only to have the rug yanked out from under us at the last possible moment by a bunch of list-humping fucks who any of us could write circles around even after suffering a massive cranial embolism.

At that point, we were in a tough spot. If we'd finished it? At BEST, we'd look not just derivative...but derivative of some of the worst dreck on the internet. Essentially, we'd be the online equivalent of a Nickelback tribute band. So, we made the tough choice to scrap it. Since then, we've moved back to square one, still yet to decide what our next move is on the original video short front.

"Not that I really object to square one. It is the only numbered square in the game. At least you know your position. Nobody ever screws up and goes, 'Well, back to oval seven'." - Jerry Seinfeld.

(See, Cracked? That's what it looks like when you give proper credit to the source of a joke. Maybe you oughta be taking notes?)

"Mother...FUCKER!"

Which brings us to today.

Some of you may recall my Wednesday "Champions of Society" post this week, sub-titled: "Welcome Our New Sex Robot Overlords." It was based on a recent news story about a guy who had worked on a sex android named "Roxxxy." An android that he claimed was pretty lifelike, due to the fact that you could talk to it, that it had a self-warming system, and that it could even simulate orgasm when you had sex with it...just like a real woman (ba-ding!). I thought a story like that deserved the ol' Diary do-up. So, I did it.

It seemed to go over pretty well, too. I even got some nice feedback on the article from our modest-but-proud readership, which felt great. But...it proved to be a very short-lived high. Reason being, I logged into Fark.com today, and saw a link to THIS aberration:

Oh, you fucking SON OF A BITCH

Once again, it seems as though the orangutans at Cracked had stolen our thunder...and once again, it was the monkey known as "Daniel O'Brien" in particular. I felt my blood pressure start to go up.

"Hey, wait..." I told myself. "That was a pretty widely-covered story. It was on CNN, for chrissakes." I tried to convince myself that despite Cracked's track record for seemingly fucking me over personally, this was just another coincidence.

Then, I fucked up. I actually read the article.

And now I am not happy all over again.

Look, I'm not saying Cracked is ripping us off specifically. Heavens, no. I mean, it sure seems like they are, but...maybe they're not. I guess I'll let you be the judge:

Diary of Fools, Feb. 3rd, '10: "...Roxxy's computer is also able to allow her to simulate an orgasm - both through vocal sounds, as well as a motor that allows her to 'shudder.'...Sorry, but this is ultimately a SEX TOY. So I utterly fail to see the point of either of those in this context. Do you really think the kind of guy who is so hard up that he needs to drop 7K on a receptacle really gives a shit whether she talks back, or gets off?"

Cracked.com, Feb. 5th, '10: "...The inventor also claims that Roxxxy "even shudders to simulate orgasm," which seems like a fairly irrelevant inclusion. I’m pretty sure that the kind of guy who drops seven grand on a soulless sex receptacle is also the kind of guy who doesn’t care if it orgasms."

Uh...huh.

And it doesn't stop there.

Diary of Fools, Feb. 3rd, '10: "In addition to being ready, willing and able to satisfy a customer's 'needs' via her anatomically-correct orifices, she also has a specialized computer inside that li'l rubbery head. A computer that can understand what you are saying to it, and respond with any of several hundred appropriate phrases."

Cracked.com, Feb. 5th, '10: "When you speak to her, your speech is converted to text, which her internal computers analyze using her unique pattern-recognition software. She then comes up with an appropriate response from her database of hundreds of prerecorded responses."

Diary of Fools, Feb. 3rd, '10: "While I can accept that there are dudes out there who are so unlucky with women that they can see spending the kind of money you could take a years' worth of nice singles' cruises with on a life-size, realistic faux femme to put the wood to...I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the level of sheer, abject loneliness-spiked desperation that would drive someone to not only want said ersatz lass to climax right along with him, but to also cuddle and chat afterwards."

Cracked.com, Feb. 5th, '10: "I’d always imagined that the popularity of Real Dolls and other competing titles in the doll-pork market was due to lonely guys who enjoyed the act of having sex with a woman but either didn’t have time for or couldn’t navigate around the tricky aspects like 'emotional connection' and 'human interaction'."

Diary of Fools, Feb. 3rd, '10: "I mean...I know that based on tech trends, human nature, and several decades worth of sci-fi, a 'sex droid' is absolutely inevitable. I get that."

Cracked.com, Feb. 5th, '10: "If Roxxxy outsells Real Dolls, it means consumers prefer lifelike dolls, which means a doll even more lifelike than Roxxxy will be even more successful, until we get sex robots that seem to have total autonomy."

Diary of Fools, Feb. 3rd, '10: "[She's] affectionately named "Roxxxy." Her list price? Around $7,000...Since news of Roxxxy first hit the market, there's been a considerable interest. According to Creepy McDollfucker up there, more than 4,000 men have placed pre-orders for bone-bots, and another 20,000 or so have requested information."

Cracked.com, Feb. 5th, '10: "Roxxxy boasts an advanced artificial intelligence. She costs around $7000 and has already been pre-ordered by over 4,000 men."

Nice work, you guys. That's some reeeealy stellar shit. Maybe after you finish stealing penny candy from the mom-and-pop drugstore that's been on the verge of bankruptcy since Nixon resigned, you can go and knock over some old ladies and grab their purses. Perhaps go to the shelter and kick around a few puppies with your steel-toed workboots on.

Ironically, even though the dick-hole who's getting twenty times our hits with one-twentieth the talent is the one named "O'Brien," I'm starting to understand how Conan felt. That is: overshadowed and ripped off by an artless bully who enjoys inexplicable popularity and boundless credit, despite the fact that he sucks harder than a harbor-side hooker during weekend shore leave. And to FURTHER stretch the metaphor, I don't even have a Jimmy Kimmel on my side to take Leno to the boards, and scold him for throwing his weight around and stomping on the little guy.

So, in short...FUCK YOU, Cracked. Fuck you in the NECK. You guys aren't worth a sniff of the damp rag I use to mop the sweat off of my cartoonishly gigantic testicles.

Y'know, my grandmother used to say, "If you don't have anything nice to say about someone, shut your fucking smart little mouth." And she was an awesome lady. So, I suppose if there's any one complimentary thing I CAN say about you guys, it's this: at least you're staying true to your roots. You started your life as a shameless, ragtag crew of outright plagiarists, and you still are.

"What, ME worry?"

Tune Translator Vol. 3: Counting Crows - "Mr. Jones."

Modern pop music can be perplexing, laden as it so often is with oblique imagery, vague references, and confusing lingo. On the one hand, this is desirable; art SHOULD be open to interpretation, and different songs will then mean different things to different people. On the other, it can be a big ol' pain on the ass if you have absolutely zero idea what the fuck that overpaid loser on the radio is howling about. Hence: the Tune Translator.

Today's dissection specimen: "Mr. Jones," a jangly mid-90's alt-pop hit by unrepentantly filthy California hippies Counting Crows.

In case you need to refresh your flagging memory:



"Mr. Jones," at least on the surface, serves as as a double-edged sword: both a paean to the potential benefits of large-scale recognition, as well as a naïve cautionary tale on fame's perils as viewed through the rose-colored glass of unrequited longing. But as we look deeper, we discover disturbing undercurrents of alcohol abuse, mental illness, and emotionally-crippling delusion.

However, it's still art!

The subtle depth of the artistic vision of lead hair-host Adam Duritz begins to make itself evident immediately, in the song's opening strains:

"Sha la la la la la la la.
Oh.
Uh huh."

To the untrained eye, these are nonsense syllables. But true scholars see them for what they truly are: a crafty wallop of meaninglessness in order to provide a juxtapositional contrast to the brilliance to come. Sort of like Marilyn Monroe's birthmark; a small blight of imperfection in a sea of pristine elegance that serves to throw the rest of the surrounding beauty into stark focus rather than detracting from it.

"I was down at the New Amsterdam starin' at this yellow-haired girl,
Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation with a black-haired flamenco dancer.
You know, she dances while his father plays guitar.
She's suddenly beautiful.
Don't we all want something beautiful?"

Ha, ha! We sure do, Andy.

As every schoolchild knows, "New Amsterdam" was the original name of New York City in the time of the original settlement. So, Durtzman's lyrical choice here is meant to provide a geographical context; if an archaic one that also reinforces his hipster credentials. He's in the Big Apple, The City That Never Sleeps, El Grande Cloaca. Furthermore, he's hanging out in a tavern somewhere, as we're about to find out.

Also, he's not alone...Kind of. Because next, our humble narrator goes on to speak of his companion, a one "Mr. Jones," the titular hero. Decker refers to the mysterious Jones repeatedly throughout the song. However, as will readily become evident, Jones does not, in fact, exist. At least, not in any tangible sense.

"Jones," it is soon clear, is in reality Dzurick's alter ego. A Walter Mitty-like internal persona, albeit one with far more balls than Dimble will ever have. Sort of a Tyler Durden character, except one that presumably knows how to talk to hot dancer chicks, instead of one that beats the stuffing out of vagrants and then makes surfactant cleansers out of their unfortunate gynecomastia-induced lipid deposits.

"Man, I wish I was beautiful..."

You're right, Abel...you do. Being beautiful is everything you could hope for, and more. I should know. Unfortunately, you don't, and never will. Because to the untrained eye, you resemble nothing so much as a pasty, tubby dockworker with a bad case of Parkinson's, trying in vain to fend off a scalp-attack courtesy of a charred octopus.

Using a real gun might help. Just thinking out loud, here.

Let's move on.

"So come dance the silence down through the mornin'.
Sha la la la la la la la.
Yeah.
Uh huh.
Yeah."

More nonsense syllables. This includes the first line, which concerns an action, abstract notion and time-frame all smashed together in an order that doesn't make the faintest lick of grammatical sense. Still, it's a bridge/transition to some more gibberish, which further underscores to the unbridled genius of the previous verse. We needed a palate cleanser before launching into the next section, so in addition to a beauty mark, Marilyn now has a Letterman-like tooth gap. Works for Lauren Hutton, right?

CHRIST! On second thought, let's just forget I said anything.

"...'Cut up, Maria! Show me some of them Spanish dances, and
Pass me a bottle, Mr. Jones.'
Believe in me,
Help me believe in anything.
'Cause I wanna be someone who believes.
Yeah."

"Cut up" refers here to rug-cutting (i.e., dancing), which the aforementioned flamenco artist Maria (accompanied by El Papa) has already been established to be doing. And while it is not clear which half of the narrator/hero's personality issues the redundant request in the first line, it IS clear that Dimple doesn't have any desire to take responsibility for his own drinking problem. Which is why he asks "Jones" to hand him the bottle. Presumably, Dibble's right hand obliges him (as it is wont to do, given his already-established difficulty communicating with women). Hooray, liquid courage!

Following this, Dobbs/Jones utters a desperate plea that this distant, desirable dervish express an interest in him and his clumsy non-advances, as fame must start somewhere, and charity begins at home. It is not known if she issued any response, but one assumes no.

"Mr. Jones and me tell each other fairy tales,
and we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's looking at you. Ah, no, no, she is looking at me'."

As the alcohol takes its effect, confidence increases. So Dotzman/Jones egg each other on here, possibly within the confines of their shared, tentacle-bedecked head. "They" lie to "each other" concerning the nature of "their" sexual desirability, deluding themselves into believing attractive women have noticed "them." In reality, any attractive females in the vicinity, if they've noticed the singer at all, have no doubt said to themselves, "Who the hell is the pudgy, drunk douche with the mop on his head, and why is he gawking at me while he mutters to himself?"

"Smilin' in the bright lights.
Comin' through in stereo.
When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely."

The club's lighting and sound system are remarked upon, as Dumbert's/Jones' intoxication has progressed to the level where he is apt to see himself as a suave, charming, Dean-Martin-style bon vivant everyone adores, rather than the sloppy, gibbering lush he is in reality.

You will never, EVER be this cool. So stop trying.

"Well, I'm gon' paint my picture.
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray.
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful.
Yeah, well you know, gray is my favorite color."

Slurred speech makes a more pronounced appearance, as does a presumptuous self-confidence about perceived crossover artistic ability. This is tinged with pretentious, pseudo-moody ruminations about the nature of color meaning, and the poignancy and ambiguously-nebulous sub-textural nature of "shades of gray" in particular. Y'know...the kind of "Art Appreciation 101" stuff that stopped being deep enough to get you laid post-freshman year.

"I felt so symbolic yesterday.
If I knew Picasso,
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play."

Dinklage is now drunk enough to tell us how "symbolic" he feels, in case we missed the ham-fisted nature of the previous passage. He then goes on to invoke the name of Spanish surrealist Pablo Picasso, the most hackneyed example of a painter both familiar enough in household-name recognition, and unconventional enough in artistic approach for a given reference to have a possible impact on someone you're trying to impress while pickled.

Pictured: more action than Adler Durtzel will be seeing tonight.

"Mr. Jones and me look into the future.
Yeah, we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's looking at you.
I don't think so. She's looking at me'."

Here, Dortzberg/Jones digs out the crystal ball and attempts to divine what's to come. Hilariously, even in a hoped-for, post-progress future, our multiple-personality hero STILL can't conceive of a scenario wherein he's put enough starch in his spine to break the ice with the female types. The frustration inherent in this is illustrated by the subtle-but-obvious combative escalation of the interior argument.

"Standin' in the spotlight.
I bought myself a gray guitar.
When everybody loves me, I will never be lonely.
I will never be lonely.
Said I'm never gonna be lonely."

"Maybe when I learn to play an instrument, I will receive the adoration of the anonymous masses, for which I so pathetically yearn. In the meantime, I will continue to sit here, assault my liver, and not approach women."

"I wanna be a lion.
Eh, everybody wanna pass as cats.
We all wanna be big, big stars, yeah but, we got different reasons for that.
Believe in me 'cause I don't believe in anything,
And I wanna be someone to believe, to believe, to believe.
Yeah."

Chicken-hearted, self-pitying Dumble, the spectre with whom he fights for control of his mind and their pet skull-squid envision themselves to have all of the bravery of the King of the Jungle, post-wizard-visit. These self-affirmations have no discernible effect.

"I feel pretty."

"Mr. Jones and me stumbling through the barrio.
Yeah, we stare at the beautiful women:
'She's perfect for you. Man, there's got to be somebody for me!'

A heavily-intoxicated Dexter/Jones has left the club after failing to muster up the sack between the "two" of them to speak to any available ladies, and are currently staggering clumsily through the ghetto, STILL pining in vain for female attention. This, despite the fact that in all of recorded history, not a single sloppy, fat alcoholic lurching home after bar close has EVER convinced a woman to join him on his trek. Plus, the probability of this scenario decreases slightly from zero in the presence of dreadlocks.

"I wanna be Bob Dylan.
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky.
When everybody loves you, ah son, that's just about as funky as you can be."

Duckberg figures Mr. Dylan gets plenty of chicks and respect with HIS guitar, and envies that. Jones, for "his" part, is shooting for the emulation of a pop idol with a little more of an R&B feel to his oeuvre.

"I don't blame him. Being me IS pretty fuckin' fantastic, if I'm being honest."

"Mr. Jones and me starin' at the video.
When I look at the television I wanna see me starin' right back at me."

A television is on in a storefront window as Delbert staggers homeward. A music video is playing. Dembeck, in his drunken and desperate state, leans on the glass to watch it, and wishes it were HIM instead. Jones, as a helpless prisoner/passenger within Determan's booze-impaired mind, must also.

"We all wanna be big stars, but we don't know why and we don't know how.
But when everybody loves me, I wanna be just about as happy as I can be."

For all of his pined-for stardom, Dostoyevsky has no clue regarding just exactly how to go about actually achieving those goals. Conveniently, he hangs the entirety of his well-being upon the satisfaction of a set of criteria over which he has convinced himself he has no control, thus allowing himself a readily-available excuse to be forever miserable. Like so many others, rather than actually researching, putting any effort into, or investing in his dreams, Deuteronomy would rather just get piss-drunk and bitch about his lack of success before going home alone. In doing so, he banks big points on his claims for being a "suffering" artisté. Points he will never, ever cash in by actually creating anything.

"Mr. Jones and me, we're gonna be big stars..."

Don't fucking count on it, champ.

"I has a sad. Blow me?"

Friday Funk: Oddisee

From the 2008 masterpiece '101', here's Chocolate City Dreaming.

This Day in History

1958
Gamel Abdel Nasser was nominated to become the first president of the new United Arab Republic blahblahblah whateverwhatever who really cares… What does really matter is, on this day in 1948, comedic genius Christopher Guest was born, meaning the world would not have to go on without this:

Dof Shirt of the Week: Evil Smoking Donut Says:

Its not "they" who are out to get you, its him. The Evil Smoking Donut is the marionette master behind the scenes. Raising your ARM and blood pressure. Good Cholesterol? Ha. Thats him getting you fatter.

Give in. Obey. Eat more sugar, fatty.

As Always, click here if you're interested in succumbing to the inevitable.

If you're like me and you like cute little pastries (gay) you can customize the print on this version. Of course everyone who chooses this option will be telling me personally you think you're better than me.

Jerk.

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity: Abstract Edition

The recurring "Day I Lost Faith in Humanity" posts we routinely have such sport with around here tend to share a common thread. That is: "humanity" is mostly taken in its literal form; that is to mean, "people." Let's face it: there will never be a lack of source material for this feature, as human beings have what seems like a bottomless well of stupid upon which to draw. There will always be another schmuck who does something so confoundingly moronic, so stupefyingly thick-skulled that we can't help but load him up into the funny-cannon, and use him as schaden-fodder for our detached amusement.

But then I read this article, and it forced me to consider an alternate interpretation of "losing faith in humanity":

Lender Forecloses on Homeless Shelter

This building is home to over 700 people who have nowhere else to go. At least, it is for now.

A new lender has foreclosed on the massive homeless shelter run by the Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless, which must come up with $500,000 to stop foreclosure. Bob Cramer, chairman of the board of the task force, confirmed Wednesday that they had received a foreclosure notice this week, and the group has a month to come up with more than half a million dollars to pay off the overdue loans.

Cramer said the task force had been trying to renegotiate the loans it had with Mercy Housing, a nonprofit lender in Colorado, and the Institute for Community Economics, a nonprofit in Massachusetts, but the nonprofits chose to sell the loans to a group called Ichthus Community Trust, which foreclosed.

"The balloon note was due over a year ago but I think it is important to note that all the interest has been paid through February," Cramer said. "We were trying to work it out."

Oh, for CHRIST'S SAKE.

Look, I'm not saying that any institution should be able to get away with not paying their bills. And I'm not saying that a bank should not have the right to foreclose on an entity that defaults. All I'm saying is, procedural by-laws of black-and-white business conduct are one thing. And common motherfucking human decency is another.


To begin with, it's a goddamned homeless shelter. So I'm sure it's hardly as though they're operating with a surplus budget. Second, they're legitimately doing their best. If they hadn't paid a red cent since the Clinton Administration, sure. Out they go. But the Director has been doing his utmost to at least pay the interest owed.

And last, there needs to be some common sense applied to the fact that, again, IT'S A FUCKING HOMELESS SHELTER!

To put a finer point on it, just try to imagine, if you will, the following hypothetical scenario:

You're Marvin Dithers, 47. You used to be a tradesman carpenter in the Atlanta area. The work was mostly steady, and you did okay. But then the recession hit. Construction ground to a halt. And not only were there no new homes being built, but there were countless people getting booted out of existing ones because their sources of revenue support had dried up.


You held on by your fingernails from savings, and the charity of family and friends for awhile, but times are tough. Everyone's hurting. So eventually, you, too lost your home. Sure, you'd tried to work with the bank, but they'd rather sit on countless parcels of property they'll never sell than take any less than the exorbitant interest fees they feel they're entitled to.

So, you'd stayed with friends for awhile, and looked for work where there was none, hoping to get back on your feet. But you eventually started feeling like a burden. You couldn't exactly make out the tense, hissed kitchen conversations between your friend and his wife after they thought you were asleep, but you definitely heard "Marvin" more than once. So, you collected what was left of your meager belongings, got up off your buddy's couch, and swallowed your pride. Then, you trudged off to the homeless shelter.

It wasn't so bad, really. People there were mostly in the same boat, and they supported each other. Once a week the lady from the career center came by, and handed out a few applications. She was harried and overworked (after all, there are 700 folks in this shelter alone, and she's got a few more to get to this week), but she was available in case you needed résumé help or a letter of recommendation. The beds were a little lumpy, but better than a steam grate. And the food wasn't gonna win any awards, but you got to eat. It was a little Spartan, more than a little industrial, but it was a safety net. Somewhere to go for a little while. This would do until the opportunity presented itself to rebuild a better future.


Then one day you came back from handing out applications to surly fry cooks half your age, and there was a big foreclosure notice posted on the front door. Your stomach lurched in a sickening dive-roll to the left and down. Oh, no. not again. Not HERE.

The people inside wore tired smiles under their red-rimmed eyes. How could this happen, you ask? They explain that they're trying, but money is tight, and the bank is unsympathetic. And that's when you remember the bank. The bank, which probably collected a metric shit-ton of TARP money, and then added the number to its Q4 profit outlook rather than lend it back out. The bank, where the men in $500 suits shoo you away from the marble columns by the front door. The bank, the place where what's left of the newspapers can't stop reporting that record bonus payouts are taking place...The same newspapers that serve as bedspreads for a few of your less-fortunate friends.

The bank...which had bought the troubled loan that had previously underwritten the operating costs of the shelter from a non-profit lender called, "Mercy Housing."


"Mercy," indeed.

Look, I know this is more than a little moribund and heavy-handed for what's ostensibly a humor portal, but FOR FUCK'S SAKE. "The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity" has taken on an extra layer of meaning for me today. Because while it's easy as pie to single out one moron and hold him up as a paragon of idiocy, using him as evidence of why the human race is a hilariously doomed gaggle of barely-evolved primates only 2 chromosomes away from hurling feces at each other, it's another thing entirely to lose faith in the entire abstract concept of humanity. Because, confirmed cynic though I am, one of the only things that rocks me to sleep at night is the admittedly-idealistic notion that people are basically good, civil, and compassionate. That deep down, when the dust settles, we really do give a shit about each other. That no matter what, everything's going to be okay.

So, fuck you, "Ichthus Community Trust." Fuck you upside-down, sideways, and in your ear. It shakes me to the core to think that there's not at LEAST one actual soul-possessing human being on your entire Board of Directors that had the stones to stand up and express even the SLIGHTEST reservation about looking at a building that provides 700 homeless people a place to go and the barest of dignities and essentials...and then taking even THAT away from them.

But most of all, fuck you for making me consider the duality of the term "humanity." Because, in doing so, I'm led to yet another phrase with plural meaning, in as much as it applies to both you, and the people you just put back out on the street...

"I don't know how they're gonna sleep at night."

From the Diary of (Kinda) Mad (Half) Black Man

As the second most influential biracial male in these United States I regret that I have allowed you all to go so long without telling you how you should feel about all things current and multiracial. So, without further ado… Actually there will be some “ado”. I think “ado” gets a bad rap. Every time it’s mentioned it’s always “without further ado” or “much ado about nothing”; he’s never quite given a fair shake. SO here you go “ado” – take a bow, this moment is yours.

The AABA – Otherwise known as the “All-American Basketball Alliance”, this is the fledgling basketball league currently being touted by one Don “Moose” Lewis. Given no more information than the name of the league (hint – “alliance”) and moniker it’s promoter, I’m sure you will not be hard-pressed to imagine why I feel the league should be more aptly named the Aggregate Aryan Basketball Alliance. This league’s goal is to put the fundamentals back in professional basketball and how else would they accomplish that than by the tried and true method of segregation. You read that right. Blacks and foreigners need not apply. There’s even talk of having a “SnowBall vs. Bro-Ball” game at the end of the season featuring players representing the respective sides of a black and white cookie. It’s a shame Adolph Rupp isn’t around to serve as honorary coach.

Seriously, give me a break dude. This is the most ridiculous sports concept I’ve seen in my short life and I’ve lived through SlamBall AND the XFL, not to mention the WNBA. The truth is that fundamental basketball is simply not the most entertaining sport in the world and without the athletic innovations that have taken it to its’ current success, professional basketball would not exist. And soon, neither will the AABA.

Chris Matthews – MSNBC pundit Chris Matthews recently made a rather remarkable comment following President Barack Obama’s State of the Union Address. Evidently caught up in a bout of Obama fever, Matthews confided that he was so moved by the speech he “forgot Obama was black for an hour.” Look, I’m not even (kinda) mad at the sentiment he expressed. But when he forgot he was black did he then remember he was white? Or did Obama cease to have color? If the feelings only lasted an hour are we sure he wasn’t just on shrooms? I hear those tend to bend perception of color and reality. And why is it that whenever a person of color can express themselves slightly more eloquently than Rosie Perez it suddenly becomes possible for them to be seen outside of the context of their ethnicity? I get what you were trying to say Mr. Matthews, but I don't get why you thought that was the best way to say it.

Well that’s it for now my little mestizos and mulattos. Enjoy Black History Month!

Hey there!

Time to see what's new in Crazytown, the ka-RAAAAziest place on Earth!

Oh, hi, mam! Whatchya got there? Cupcakes? Well, that doesn't sound so crazy...

…kaRAAAAzy delicious, maybe! HAHAhahahaahahaooooh, mercy, I'm a kidder.

Really, though, where you goin' with all those delightful looking treats?

…

To work? That's great! I'm sure everybody will appreciate such a sweet surprise to break up the monotony of the work day! How nice!

So, what's the occasion? Someone's birthday?

…

Whattaya mean, "not exactly"?

…

um-hmmm...

…

Ooookaaayyy…

…

Oh.

I… I seeeeeeee.

So you ARE fucking crazy:

Go HERE to check out the entire crazy site.

Hot Sh!t: The Heavy

The Heavy are a band from the UK. They were formed in the fall of 2007. And in less than three years, these guys have managed to kick more ass than a three-legged man in a hip-hop video.

Like a lot of folks stateside, they first came to my attention after their blockbuster appearance on The Late Show with David Letterman a few weeks ago. Their timing was good: it was the middle of the late-night snipe-fest, everyone was taking pot-shots at Jay Leno over his greedy-grabbing of The Tonight Show back from the far-superior Conan O'Brien, and ratings were up across the board. How fitting then that The Heavy grabbed the ball and ran with it in such spectacular fashion.

They performed their single "How You Like Me Now?", and the response was so overwhelming, Letterman invited them to do a rare encore during the closing credits. How rare, exactly? Well, in nearly three decades of broadcasting on late-night TV, Dave has asked exactly one band to play a second number to close the show. And that band was The Motherfucking Heavy.

So, enjoy, kids. They just don't make 'em like this anymore.

This Day in History

1690
The first paper money in America was issued by the colony of Massachusetts. Several days later, Governor Simon Bradstreet burst through the front doors of a popular burlesque house proclaiming the arrival of "Daddy Long Stroke" while proceeding to shower performers with the newly printed currency in a theatrical show he called "makin' it rain", the first such case in recorded history.

1988
The U.S. House of Representatives rejected President Ronald Reagan's request for more than $36 million in aid to the Nicaraguan Contras. Meanwhile, a napping Reagan was in the midst of an erotically-charged dream involving Mikhail Gorbachev and reenacted scenes from the film 9 1/2 Weeks.

2009
Iran sent its first domestically made satellite, Omid ("hope"), into orbit. While the motives behind its launch were initially questioned, red-faced global detractors were soon apologizing after learning the satellite was only being used to beam Full House re-runs to the presidential palace.

Who will the "Rule of Threes" take next? Might I suggest Dustin Diamond?

Last week was a tough one.

2 formative forces of my youth/young adulthood gone in the span of 2 days.

2 very different men.

2 very different seminal works.

Alongside Charles Bukowski, JD Salinger and Howard Zinn - and, respectively, Catcher in the Rye and A People's History of the United States - helped me see myself and the world around me in a more truthful light.

In Catcher, my 15 year old self rejoiced in finally - FINALLY - finding a voice that could help lead me through those existential vagaries, that obtuse confusion that washes over most teens. Once the last page was read, all that inexplicable angst-y discomfort/anxiety - or at least, a portion of it - was replaced with a feeling of something like contentment. Probably the kind of contentment those kids who joined the Christian youth group at my high school were after."The Jesus Youth" I called them. Pssh. Who needs JC when you have JD?

Oddly enough, of all the extra-curricular groups at school, The Jesus Youth members accounted for a disproportionate percentage of our school's pregnancies. Hmm.

Anyway, while it's true that through Holden Caulfield, Salinger didn't directly answer any of life's burning questions, he did deliver something even more valuable. He told me it's not only fine to be clueless and confused, but that it's actually part of being alive. This feeling wasn't some sort of personal defect, it was a human truth: NOBODY has this shit figured out. NOBODY ever will. Anybody who claims to have it figured out, is, well, a big "phony" to use one of Holden's favorite words.

"History is a protective armor against being misled."

About 10 years after reading Catcher, I randomly came across Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States while wandering around in a Barnes and Noble. At the time, I was coming to terms with the fact that maybe I really didn't take full advantage of my time in college. Trying to assuage this guilt, I had been reading ferociously. Politics. Philosophy. Classic Fiction. Anything and everything. And the backcover copy of A People's History was just intriguing enough for me to drop $25 I didn't have for the book.

Little did I know that those $25 would render $1,000s in university credits completely useless anyway.

I opened the book and didn't put it down for 2 weeks.

Widely-taught, oft-repeated historical "facts" were discredited with each turn of the page.

Iconic, lionized American figures like Teddy Roosevelt became brutish war-mongers.

Once-celebrated, now-tainted names like Christopher Columbus sullied even more so.

Why?

For the first time in my life I was reading history from the viewpoint of "the losers". The people who suffered and were victimized by the likes of Roosevelt and Columbus in the name of imperial expansion and greed.

"Manifest Destiny" proved to be nothing but a marketable term for forceful takeovers, lies and genocide.

But Zinn in A People's History isn't just a one-man historical wrecking crew, bulldozing monuments and calling it a day, leaving the reader to deal with the rubble. He presents what he calls an "alternate set of heroes". People like Helen Keller and Mark Twain. Not unheard of figures by anybody who made it past the 5th grade to be sure. But what we didn't learn about these people might surprise you, such as Helen Keller as labor organizer or Mark Twain as vice president of the Anti-Imperialist League (watch Zinn expound on this in an interview with Amy Goodman). You know, shit that wasn't in Huck Finn or in the made-for-TV version of The Helen Keller Story with that chick from Little House.

Zinn taught me that there is no such thing as THE History of [blank]. This thing we call "history" changes depending on the perspective of the person telling it.

And more than anything, in a broader sense, Zinn taught me to be an active observer - of history, yes, but more importantly of the large, established institutions that set the parameters our society currently functions within: government, corporations, Wall Street, schools and religion.

“I'm worried that students will take their obedient place in society and look to become successful cogs in the wheel - let the wheel spin them around as it wants without taking a look at what they're doing. I'm concerned that students not become passive acceptors of the official doctrine that's handed down to them from the White House, the media, textbooks, teachers and preachers."
- Howard Zinn

Champions of Society: Welcome Our New Sex Robot Overlords

From time to time, we here at the Diary must ponder the Big Questions. Why are we here? What does it all mean? Is there a god? How does Kevin Costner keep getting work? And for the record, the answers are, "no real reason," "a whole lot of not much," "absolutely not" and "naked pictures of all the studio heads."

But sometimes, the not-so-big questions are also taken on. Today, it's, "What do men want?" And the answers to this are many. Beer? Yes. HD sports? That too. A backscratch once in awhile? HELL, yes. But the one thing men want more than anything else is the one thing they can't really buy. Well, not LEGALLY, that is.

Until now. Well...sort of, anyway.

Recently, an intrepid entrepreneur named Douglas Hines decided to remedy this oversight. And in service of this, he's created what he claims is the world's first "sex robot," affectionately named "Roxxxy." Her list price? Around $7,000.

That's her. Ain't she a looker?

"She doesn't vacuum or cook, but she does almost everything else," says her creator. Ho-boy.

Hines claims Roxxxy is a major advancement over, say a RealDoll (and do NOT click that link if you are currently sane, at work, or don't know how to clear your browser history. I mean it). This is because, in addition to being ready, willing and able to satisfy a customer's "needs" via her anatomically-correct orifices, she also has a specialized computer inside that li'l rubbery head. A computer that can understand what you are saying to it, and respond with any of several hundred appropriate phrases.

But that's not all. Because in addition to being able to respond to your conversation, Roxxy's computer is also able to allow her to simulate an orgasm - both through vocal sounds, as well as a motor that allows her to "shudder."

Y'know...kind of like what I'm doing right now...
though not for the same reasons, exactly.

The mind boggles.

Looking at that photo, and giving this whole bizarre scenario several serious seconds' worth of deep thought, I arrive at several important questions:

A) If I wanted to get it on with a stroke victim, there are no doubt countless group home residents who couldn't legally object.

B) Has there ever been a dude who looked like he possessed both the means and the need to create a sex robot more than this guy?

And perhaps most importantly:

C) Roxxxy can "carry on a conversation, and have a simulated orgasm." Pardon my pragmatism, but WHY?!?

Sorry, but this is ultimately a SEX TOY. So I utterly fail to see the point of either of those in this context. Do you really think the kind of guy who is so hard up that he needs to drop 7K on a receptacle really gives a shit whether she talks back, or gets off?

I'm gonna need a pretty big truck to deliver the answer to that.

And even if he does, that's gotta be the saddest thing in the entire goddamn universe. Sadder than Old Yeller, Brian's Song and whatever it is that Nikki Cox did to her face put together. Because while I can accept that there are dudes out there who are so unlucky with women that they can see spending the kind of money you could take a years' worth of nice singles' cruises with on a life-size, realistic faux femme to put the wood to...I have a hard time wrapping my brain around the level of sheer, abject loneliness-spiked desperation that would drive someone to not only want said ersatz lass to climax right along with him, but to also cuddle and chat afterwards.

But, apparently, those guys are out there. Since news of Roxxxy first hit the market, there's been a considerable interest. According to Creepy McDollfucker up there, more than 4,000 men have placed pre-orders for bone-bots, and another 20,000 or so have requested information. Eeeurgh. I mean...I know that based on tech trends, human nature, and several decades worth of sci-fi, a "sex droid" is absolutely inevitable. I get that. But MAN.

Coming soon: this. Probably.

Here's a freshly-pulled-from-my-ass testimonial from an average customer: "Yeah...It's not just that I can't SLEEP with women, I can't even TALK to them. And at least I don't have to ASK Roxxxy if her orgasm was real...Because I know it wasn't. But I'm really okay with that. Now, I would ask you to shut the door and back away slowly, but I can see you're waaaaay ahead of me there."

What better way to tell the world that the only way to express your level of social awkwardness is to use college-level algebra?

(P.S. - Big up to Moses Rodcancer for the link.)