Turkey Rejoins Al-Qaeda
Jimmy’s Loss, My Gain
An Open Letter to Sarah Silverman:
Call me.
Igmar Fillipé
My Beef with Korea
There have been reports in the news, as of late, about major
protests in South Korea. No, these protests were not in reference to
the crazy, communist dictator directly to their north. The protests were not about world peace or
civil rights. They were not about the
plight of the poor or about the sovereignty of the Tibet Autonomous
Region. The protests were about the
country resuming imports of beef from the United States of America.
Tens of thousands of Koreans took to the streets over American beef. Not because of how the cattle are raised or ultimately are slaughtered. No, my friends… the Koreans are concerned about mad cow disease.
After President Lee Myung-bak suggested resuming the importation of all U.S. beef, the people went ape-shit. As a result, his entire cabinet offered to resign if it would defuse the public’s anger and end their chants that the president should step-down. To further placate the citizenry, President Lee Myung-bak vowed to not import any beef from cattle from the U.S. that is over 30 month of age (…subject to the United States’ voluntary cooperation.) I’ve got a better idea.
How about this: So as to not force feed the South Koreans any of our “tainted” cows that have probably been raised in better conditions than many of their northern neighbors, I think the U.S. should halt all export of beef to South Korea. Let them go back to eating meat from cats and dogs. I’m sure nobody will get sick eating rats. Maybe they can increase the order for avian flu chickens from Vietnam.
There are plenty of countries that would not mind eating American beef. Better yet, with an over-abundance of beef, maybe us hard working Americans can start seeing some lower meat prices. I, for one, won’t mind the burden of reducing our beef inventory.
“I’ll take one quarter pound hamburger, with cheese… and hold the Mexican salmonella tomatoes, please.”
A Public Service
As a result of recent world events, billions of people are
trying to figure out exactly what the hell is a cyclone. The media is throwing around a lot of terms
in a feeble attempt to make the American public understand what kind of force
of nature could wipe out an entire third world country ruled by something as
naughty sounding as a military junta. A
typhoon, a tornado, a monsoon, a tsunami, a hurricane, a recession, a
nor’easter… they all fall short of the mark. The confusion is understandable seeing as nobody even knows what the
country is called. Is it Burma? Is it Myanmar? Is it France? Nobody knows.
As a public service, I’ve decided to impart you with a bit of my knowledge on the subject. Feel free to reference said knowledge to shock, amaze, and belittle your friends, coworkers, and family. A nugget like this is good to toss out at functions such as a Mother’s Day dinner.
A cyclone is mythical storm with one eye and a horn.
More new posts to follow… Have a happy Mother’s Day.
It Cannot Be Stopped with Conventional Weapons…
(Load-up the Nerf Gun)
I haven’t been to the cinema in about a month. This is unusual for me because I’ve been
known to routinely see two or three movies a week. Some that I’d like to see are: There Will Be
Blood and No Country for Old Men… but the one I’d really like to see on the big
screen is Cloverfield.
Despite the filmmaker’s best efforts, I have heard that Cloverfield is basically Godzilla meets the Blair Witch… a monster movie with shaky, hand-held, camera work. Sounds great, right? I know! For some strange reason, however, the powers that be decided to keep the details on the down-low. So much so, they named the movie Cloverfield. So now the creature is known as the Cloverfield Monster. Inspires fear, right?
When I first heard the name of the flick, I thought it might have been a movie about a pink, winged unicorn… or a community of orphaned baby dolls. I mean, seriously… they couldn’t come up with anything better than Cloverfield?
Well, whatever the reason, the name seems to be working for them. Bearing that in mind, I came up with some names for possible sequels:
- The Daisypatch Beast
- The Grassymeadow Behemoth
- The Babblingbrook Leviathan
- The Willowthicket Miscreation
- The Appleorchard Big Slimy Thing
I heard, in order to amp-up the fearsomeness, they briefly considered calling the movie Dangerfield… only they were concerned that the monster wouldn’t get any respect.
Memory of Sean Taylor Inspires Bills to a Come from Behind Win over the Redskins
RALJON, Md. (FMH) – Decimated by misery, misfortune, and
grief, the Buffalo Bills entered FedEx Field on a mission. After losing tight end Kevin Everett to a
cervical spine fracture in the first game of the season, the Bills have
struggled with only 5 wins and 6 losses. Add to that the tragic news of the murder of Redskins free safety Sean
Taylor, and it has almost become too much for any professional football team to
bear. But, when the dust cleared, after
the game, the Bills pulled out a win in the waning moments, improving their
record to 6 and 6. Said Buffalo fan John Snorkleton, “It’s what Sean
would have wanted.”
With a black, number 21 pin affixed to his Jason Webster jersey, Snorkleton franticly waved his number 21 rally towel through the fourth quarter… personally willing many of kicker Rian Lindell’s five field goal attempts between the goal posts. “We have as much right to invoke the spirit of Taylor to intercede on our behalf as anyone. He was a member of the National Football League. He was a human. He… had two arms.”
To honour the fallen safety, Buffalo won the game without the aid of a touchdown, adding a safety to their five field goals. “A safety! I mean, seriously… does anyone even score safeties anymore?” Snorkleton shouted while spilling beer on a visibly dejected Redskin fan, “If that wasn’t a shout-out to Sean, I don’t know what is.”
Much maligned for his play calling and time management skills during his second go-round as head coach for Washington, Joe Gibbs called back to back timeouts in a failed attempt to put Lindell’s kicking leg into a super-duper freeze. His latest coaching blunder incurred an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty, which shortened Lindell’s 51 yard attempt to a game winning 36 yard kick.
“I think this win has restored my faith in humanity. Yeah, sure… it sucks for the Redskins, but look at it this way: It could be worse.” Realizing his poorly worded faux-pas, Snorkleton slumped down in his bleacher seat and quietly apologized to a six year old, teary-eyed Redskin fan.
Bored Room
So, there were times back when I was in high school, when nothing was happening. This happened every so often. Whoever came up with the phrase, “an idle mind is the devil’s playground,” clearly also suffered from boredom.
Because of the rules of physics and some other science junk, those of us with an abundance of free time would gravitate toward each other. In my school, most people participated in some sort of extracurricular activity. If it wasn’t a sport or a club, then it might be the marching band or chorus or student leadership. I did it all. I played sports. I was a class senator. I was a thespian. I was a cheerleader. I was a Young Republican. I was in the French club. I was a picker. I was a grinner. I played my music in the sun. I even founded my own club. Even so, from time to time one could still get caught in a period between activities. For me, my longest moment in the void occurred during my sophomore year.
My friend, Regis, also found himself in the void during that time. He played football and I think he was out for a while with an injury. Going home and doing homework or getting jobs were not options for us. Often we would find ourselves, with other voiders, hanging near the media center. We would make up card games, elude school security, or even go on the occasional road trip adventure (which would inevitably end up with someone’s car dying and everyone walking home.)
That fateful day started as inauspiciously as most others. It was another boring day at school, soon to be followed by another boring afternoon meandering around the campus, getting into trouble. However, at some point in the day (let’s face it, I’m sure it was during French class) I had an epiphany.
My go-to lollypop, or sucker if you will (and I think you will,) was the Blow Pop. To be sure, I did not fancy lollypops over other treats… but really, who among you could resist bubblegum encased in a flavoured, hard candy shell? On this fateful day, however, we found ourselves Blow Popless. Dejected, we accepted the, less desirable, Tootsie Pop from the awkward, friendly girl who sat behind us.
Maybe it started as a means to further avoid paying attention in class. Who knows? But, Regis and I began reminiscing about the old commercial in which Mr. Owl fails to accurately deduce the number of licks to get to the center of Tootsie Pop. Oh, come-on… You know the one. “Ah-one… two-hoo-hoo… ah-three… CRUNCH!”
And with that, it began. I was determined to discover the secret that somehow managed to elude that poor boy… Mr. Cow, Mr. Fox, Mr. Turtle, and even wise, old Mr. Owl. I was going to find out exactly how many licks it would take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop if it killed me, and/or caused severe blistering to my tongue. This was my challenge.
The rules were simple: Licks only. Sucking was expressly forbidden. Also prohibited was the use of water or any other drink to “wǣtan my whistle.” This test was to be completed under the power of my own saliva. Regis predicted a forth period “CRUNCH!” The gauntlet had been tossed. Away I licked.
Did I know, then, that I would be making history? Could I foresee the world-wide peristaltic ramifications my brazen audacity would induce? Does anybody know what the hell a “midnight toker” is supposed to be?
As I walked home that day, my tongue was held high, with a triumphant glow. The fact that it had swollen to thrice its size, bothered me not. I had preformed a valuable service for God and my country. More than that, I knew that the next day in school, I would be the envy of every man and dream of every woman.
And even if the Fridays on my calendar weren’t suddenly inundated with movie dates, I could always rely on the weekly meeting of the Blow Pop Appreciation Club to quell the mind numbing boredom.
What The Hell Does Zeitgeist Mean, Anyhow?
I bought the new Smashing Pumpkins album. This should come as no surprise to those of
you who know me, because I‘ve been a fan of theirs since high school. Just to depress my classmates, I’ll mention
that was nearly seventeen years ago.
Don’t get me wrong. I think the album is good. It is at least on par with most of their other albums… but that’s just it. The new line-up only retains frontman, Billy Corgan and drummer, Jimmy Chamberlin from the original incarnation. It sounds like the tracks could have been pulled from the sessions of any of their last three studio albums. In fact, it sounds like Zwan and Billy Corgan’s “solo” record… which were basically Billy, Jimmy, and some filler musicians. Chamberlin’s Life Begins Again was the refreshing break from the Pumpkins’ formula, which sadly was not more fully explored.
As far as the other two founding members, only James Iha has attempted helming a project on his own. His Let It Come Down album had a sound that was reminiscent of the Pumpkins’ less-potent B-sides. It made me wonder whether the Iha penned tracks were leftovers, deemed too impotent for an official Smashing Pumpkins release.
Perhaps I am being overly harsh. I mean, I would definitely listen to Zeitgeist over most music being churned out of late. It’s just that, the Smashing Pumpkins are my favourite band. I want the best for them. I want them to blow people away. I want them to push the envelope. And, for criminy’s sake, if they are going to hype up a “reunion,” I want them to work through their personal bullshit and bring back the original line-up… if only just for a group photo and a couple of appearances where they karaoke through a few of their greatest hits.
Other newer releases of note include Mary Timony’s The Shapes We Make and Billy Talent’s second eponymous record. Washington, DC’s own Mary Timony is at it again with another collection of songs that hearken back to the medieval music of old. Fans of her old band, Helium, will not be disappointed… if they can get over their initial shock upon learning that not only is Timony not dead, but she’s been putting out a number of good solo albums.
Billy Talent is a breath of fresh air to pop-punk. This is the first new band I have heard in while that has piqued my interest. That being the case, it’s hard for me to compare their sound to other bands of their genre. Think pop-punk… that doesn’t suck ass. They hooked me with the track Fallen Leaves. The video is on YouTube, but be forewarned… you will rush out to buy the album, so have your cash in hand.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I’ve noticed that, even though it is put out by the Johnson
& Johnson company, the shampoo only has one Johnson attached to its
name. I have spent, at least, the last
day and a half trying to figure out why. To my chagrin, I discovered that the whole baby product line is only
claimed by one of the Johnsons.
Was one of the Brothers Johnson trying to take the company
in a different direction?
“Baby shampoo… Are
you fucking kidding me? That is totally
going to overshadow the debut of our latest Johnson & Johnson Ninja Stars!”
Maybe it was a quality issue.
“No More Tears is the craziest idea you’ve ever come up
with! What is shampoo without the
tears? Next, you’ll suggest ‘no more
clean’ shampoo! Any shampoo that doesn’t
result in retinal scarring will never bear my name!”
Perhaps it was developed by an unrelated member of the staff. Over the years, the name may have been shortened from: Johnson’s (No Relation to Johnson or Johnson) Baby Shampoo.
Sadly, neither Johnson nor Johnson’s website shed any light on this conundrum. To my knowledge, the underling Johnson does not yet have a website. His son, John Johnson has a site… however; it is focused exclusively on Worlds of Warcraft strategy.
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