The Real Y2K

Amid frightening Y2K predictions, the world rang in the new millennium with much apprehension. The year 2000, it was said, would be the end of the world as we knew it. All sorts of hellish, apocalyptic predictions would come to fruition. There would be plagues and pestilence. Floods and Flavor Flav. Some even said the anti-Christ would pop out from behind the ball in Times Square like a Jack-in-the-box. But most importantly, all of the world's computers would reset to 1900, bank accounts would disappear, and humankind would swiftly cease to exist.

It turns out--save a few lunatics in Iowa with tin-foil-hats and a lifetime supply of non-perishable food--nothing really happened. Well, maybe the anti-Christ part...

...but at least my savings account was intact.

But what about 2008? Could something happen this year? Or next? I can tell you right now, the answer is no. But there is something they're not telling you about. And it will affect the lives of every man, woman and child... forever.

You see, in 2000, something did happen. It has been with us ever since. And it will be with us again tonight. Yes. I'm talking about the glasses. The god-forsaken New Years glasses with two-zeros for eye-holes that make person who wears them look like an A-hole.

But guess what? In two short years, just as quickly as they were thrust upon us, they will be taken away forever (unless you live to see the year 3000.) It's the Y2K10 Bug--and NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT! We must spread the word before it's too late. So if you see someone wearing 2008 glasses tonight, tell them to enjoy them while they last. I predict, here and now, that the 2009 New Years glasses will sell out faster than the iPhone--because after that, unless you're a fucking cyclops, New Years will never be the same.

Try This At Home

If your name is Angus MacGyver, all you need to lay waste to life’s obstacles—from hotwiring a moped to breaking out of a heavily guarded Soviet prison—is a tube sock, a jar of mayonnaise, and a roll of duct tape. If you’re anyone else, you’ll probably need to read my article, "4 Ways to Become a Diabolical Genius from the Comfort of Your Home" at mental_floss. From picking locks, to hallucinating, to getting free phone calls, you'll be on your way to world domination (or jail) in no time.

Click here to read it.

American Renaissance

Michelangelo (the artist, not the Ninja Turtle) was born in 15th Century Tuscany. But if he'd been born 500 years later, in Mississippi, things may have turned out a bit different for David.


Via Eternally Cool.

Too Bad To Be True

A while back, I wrote about Mike Huckabee's shameless use of Chuck Norris in his campaign ad. I never thought anyone could out-stupid it. But I was wrong.

Somehow, as if he'd been practicing how to suck for years, Rudy Giuliani managed to make Mike Huckabee look like a guru. Which is not easy. It's right up there with trying to make Michael Jackson look like a human, or David Hasselhoff look sober.

Watch the video:



What follows is a chronological account of my inner monologue during this video:

1 Second: Hey, it's Mr. 9/11 Man!!
6 Seconds: Oh, you're having trouble finding time for Christmas shopping? Why don't you just embezzle campaign funds and hire a personal shopper? You know, kinda like how you used the NYPD to drive your mistress around when you were Mayor of New York.
15 Seconds: Sounds pretty good so fa--
16 Seconds: Strict constructionist judges!!? What the fuck! I don't recall asking Santa for any judges. Not even sane, practical ones.
18 Seconds: A FRUITCAKE!!?
20 Seconds: Thank God I wasn't the only one thinking that.
25 Seconds: You. Can't. Act. Stop it.
28 Seconds: Kill me.
30 Seconds: Well, on the bright side, at least he's not even buying this bullshit.

So... Huckabee's endorsed by Chuck Norris. Giuliani's got Santa in his camp. Oprah's touring the country with Obama. I wonder what's next? I'm guessing Romney's got something up his sleeve magical underwear.

Maybe he could use Payton Manning? He could use a few more commercials. Or, hey, what's Britney's deal these days? Maybe she could endorse Romney?

Wait. Is she married?

Maybe Romney could marry her! Purpose to her live during the Super Bowl!!

Wait. Is he married?

Sure, but no biggie, he's Mormon! He could get that Chris Crocker kid to scream "leave Romney alone" on YouTube, and have Britney make a music video about their Hollywood romance. Romney would be unstoppable. Well. Nearly unstoppable.


Now that would be unstoppable. All that's left is the campaign slogan. Anyone?

I Shit You Not

If you're like me, you've always wanted your shit to glow in the dark like a Lite-Brite. Unfortunately, corn and peanuts just don't cut it. They give it some texture, sure, but there's no sizzle. No spark. I'm happy to say, those days are over. Thanks to the fine people at Citizen:Citizen, you can kiss your dull dung goodbye. They've invented a 24-karat golden pill that makes your shit sparkle like Tinkerbell when she's feeling generous.

If you thought your life changed when you hit puberty, you ain't seen nothin' yet. After taking the gold pill, people will literally worship the ground you fart on. They'll chant "El Dorado" when you use public restrooms.

The Wizard of Oz will be remade in your honor, staring one of your finest golden-studded turds as the great and powerful Oz. And when the Munchkins sing "follow the yellow brick road" they'll be leading Dorothy on a journey through your flaxen, twinkling digestive tract. You're poop will be everywhere. On billboards. In commercials. Cross-merchandised with McDonald's Kid's meals. Even in a Lord of the Rings made-for-TV-spin-off, in which Gollum's illegitimate son resurrects the search for his precious. Only now, "his precious" is none other than YOUR MAGNIFICENT ASSHOLE! You see, the gold pill, like all great inventions—the wheel, sliced bread, Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots—will not be fully appreciated in its own time. But mark my words, someday, sooner than you think, we'll all be shitting (gold) bricks... one way or another.

Bad Santa

For some reason, Santa Claus strikes fear into the hearts of young children. There is plenty of documented evidence. But why Santa?

Maybe it's because the only thing creepier than a child molester, is a child molester with a white beard and a red onesie?


Or maybe it's because everyone says he lives in the North Pole, but it's quite clear he's been sleeping in an abandoned warehouse in a pool of his own excrement.


Or maybe, just maybe, it's because he cackles maniacally when small children writhe in his arms, petrified that they may never escape.


Whatever it is, one thing is clear. Nothing says Christmas like innocent children beset with unadulterated terror. Well, that and showing A Christmas Story on TBS twelve times in a row. But we all know, if it weren't for Ralphie's tormented childhood, there wouldn't be much of a story.

Life Is Short

In August 2006 a video called "Noah takes a photo of himself every day for 6 years" took YouTube by storm. It could have easily been called, "Noah hasn't taken a shower for six years" or, "Noah hasn't reached REM sleep for six years". But it wasn't. Instead, it garnered over 7 million views and has proven, once and for all, that it's possible to look pissed off for 2356 consecutive days. If you haven't seen the video, you can check it out below, or, go to his website to see his recent progress how utterly disheveled and scary-looking he has become.



I can only assume Noah will continue this little project until the day he dies. And like it or not, you've gotta love the commitment. Especially since Homer Simpson's way ahead.

'Roid Rage

As many of you know, the Mitchell Report is out. Since it's about five thousand pages long, I'll sum it up for you. A lot of baseball players use steroids. I know. Shocking.


Keeping steroids out of baseball to maintain the integrity of the sport is like keeping crack out of a crack pipe to maintain the integrity of the pipe. Crack is supposed to go in a crack pipe. And anabolic steroids are supposed to be shot into Rodger Clemens' ass. It's science.

I don't really see what all the fuss is about. A few months back, Mark Ecko nearly sent Barry Bonds' record-setting home run ball into space. SPACE! Like on a fucking rocket ship. Baseball "purists" were actually that pissed.

The truth is, baseball has been corrupt since its inception. In 1877, four players on the Louisville Grays were exposed as shills for gambling ring. In 1919, the infamous Chicago Black Sox threw the world series. There was Pete Rose in the 80s. And the list goes on, and on, and on.

The only thing impure about baseball is the prospect of fair play and sobriety. Baseball is boring enough as it is. And if I have to sit there for five and a half hours watching the first 6 innings, the least the players can do is be inhumanly good at it. Even if it means eating rhinoceros vitamins.

The Case For Hoboween

Am I the only one who thinks there should be Halloween for the homeless? I’ll probably never run for office, but if I do, instituting Homeless Halloween will be the only item on my agenda.

Allow me to explain. This past Halloween, as dozens of plump children pranced jovially from door-to-door collecting free candy, it occurred to me, just a few blocks away, some homeless guy was probably scraping three-day-old mozzarella cheese off a pizza box for dinner. I was overcome with the urge to find this person, disguise him as Spiderman, and send him off into the night to trick or treat. He’d eat for weeks!

In a perfect world, the homeless could celebrate Halloween on October 31st with the rest of the children, but that wouldn’t fly. Just imagine the consequences:

A homeless guy dressed like Sponge Bob Square Pants raps on a door impatiently. A little girl, dressed as Cinderella, and her older brother, Borat, approach the house. The homeless guy glances at Cinderella caustically. Tears begin to well up in her eyes. The front door swings open, revealing a smiley middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks.

Sponge Bob: Trick or treat!!

Borat & Cinderella: Trick or treat for Unicef!

Woman: Aww, how adorab—

Sponge Bob: Fuck Unicef! Gimme some damn pennies, I’m starvin’ bitch.

As you can see, Hoboween, as it will inevitably come to be known, will need to take place on a separate day. Perhaps during a colder month, like February.

In the weeks leading up to Hoboween, the ingenuity of the homeless community will shine through. We’ll see intricate costumes, crafted with care by skilled homeless artisans from recycled refuse cast aside by wasteful home-dwellers. As recycling and general philanthropy will be main tenets of Hoboween, it will be heralded as our nation’s first truly humanitarian, green holiday. We need Hoboween. Now, more than ever before. It will be a chance for homeless people to get a free meal, and for self-satisfied pricks to feel like they’re contributing to society. But most of all, even if only for a single night, it will ensure that this guy puts some fucking pants on. And I think that’s a cause we can all get behind.

Overcompensating

Whenever a short dude acts like a jackass, the phrase "Napoleon Complex" is bandied about. And when a guy owns a Bowflex and drives a Hummer, naturally, he's got a small penis. But no one ever seems to talk about the bald man/facial hair complex. I suppose, when a trend approaches ubiquity, it's quickly forgotten. But ask yourself, when's the last time you saw a bald man without facial hair?

There are so few bald men (with the exception of professional athletes) who don't have facial hair, it's almost impossible to think of one. To the best of my knowledge there are only two on the face of the planet. Steve Wilkos, the bodyguard from the Jerry Springer Show (who looks like a big retarded baby) and that deformed guy in Goonies who was locked in the basement begging for candy bars (who, for all intents and purposes, is a big retarded baby.) By the way, I'm not counting that ridiculous patch of peach-fuzz on top of Baby-Ruth's head as hair. I've decided the errant follicles are more the exception than the rule.


Now I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Howie Mandel does not count. He has a soul patch, which is considered facial hair, despite the well documented fact that it looks much more like his lower lip is going through late-stage puberty.

I don't really know where I was going with any of this. But I do know that if bald men don't grow facial hair they stand the chance of being compared to mentally challenged infants on second-rate blog. And a very good chance, at that, so long as I'm around.

I was literally just about to post this, when I thought of another bald white man without facial hair. And then I realized Mr. Clean is not a real person.

Today's Forcast

Cloudy, with a chance of penis.


Via Moonbuggy.

Life Aquatic

I’m proud to say Conventional Stupidity has gone global. This map—of last week’s traffic—proves it. But something curious has taken place. The gospel of stupidity has spread to... Africa?


Wait a second...


That's not Africa! That's... no. It can't be. Has someone has been reading this blog in the middle of the ocean? The answer, of course, is yes. But it’s not what you’d think. I seriously doubt some guy is floating on a raft in international waters checking up on this blog. Which leads me to the following odd, yet strangely obvious conclusion.

My undying devotion to the whale community has finally paid off. It seems my over-zealous support of Greenpeace and animal rights issues naming a whale Mister Splashy Pants has earned me acclaim among the broader whale community. All I can say is, it’s about time.

By the way, if you haven't heard the news, the votes are in. There is a whale named Mister Splashy Pants. And I'm sure if he could speak, instead of making weird whale noises, and blowing water through that hole on the top of his head, he'd say, "thank you."

Leave Me Alone

Scott Amron—designer, engineer, conceptual artist, and all-around asshole—is living proof that humanity has reached the nadir of its existence. On his website, Amron hawks a veritable cornucopia of useless crap, from the famed cork outlet plug, which does absolutely nothing, to a box of dead leaves, which I probably don’t need to tell you, does absolutely nothing.


He provides a picture in case you have trouble imagining what a box of dead leaves looks like. According to his website:

Except for the part about the leaves coming from “real New York trees” as if that were something to get excited about, it doesn’t sound that bad. After all, using dead leaves for packaging beats Styrofoam, which wreaks havoc on the environment. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with adding a little rustic flair to holiday shipments, right?

Wrong. He goes on to say:


For people who’d prefer to skip the merch? Is this guy serious? Are there really people out there, so utterly bewitched by the beauty of fall foliage, that they’d buy a fucking box of it? Sadly, there probably are.

Scott claims his “inventions” dissuade energy use. For instance, this completely useless handy candle screws into a lightbulb socket. It's just like the 18th Century, only uglier!


But wait a second. How is selling dead leaves helping the environment? After all, in order to care about leaves don't you have to live somewhere that doesn’t have them, like on a buoy in middle of the ocean? And isn't shipping a box of dead leaves kind of wasteful, since it requires some sort of gas-guzzling-dead-leaf-delivery-vehicle? This is probably why Al Gore won the Nobel Prize instead of Scott Amron.

Just in case you’re wondering, a box of stupid goes for $7.99. But if you're seriously inclined to spend money on dead leaves, you should probably just spring for a psychiatrist instead.

Closed Caption

A few weeks back, wildfires tore through Southern California. FOX News channel, always eager to drum up unnecessary hysteria, reported that al Qaeda could be responsible for the blaze. Seriously. They did.

But unless you’re hearing-impaired, you probably missed this side of the story, reported on a California local affiliate station:

I’m assuming this is a typo—they probably just meant evacuating. After all, no other stations reported a throng of bukkake bandits ejaculating in the middle of the road. But even under the assumption that it was a mistake, put yourself in a deaf person’s shoes.

It’s Saturday afternoon and you flip on FOX News to see what’s happening in the world. Bad news. Terrorists hate our freedom so much that they’ve begun setting fires in the woods to smoke rich California residents out of their mansions. Frazzled, and overcome with fear, you change the channel. More coverage of the wildfires, but no terrorists. You’re momentarily relieved. You decide to make yourself a sandwich and have a cigarette. When you get back to the TV, the story has taken a terrible turn. Unruly citizens have taken to the streets—and they’re ejaculating everywhere.

This is bad news indeed. Someone should raise the terror threat level, you think. Do we have a color for this sort of thing? Where does ejaculation fall on the scale? Surely near the top. You’re head starts to spin, throbbing as you attempt to wrap your mind around this. You pass out, dropping your sandwich and cigarette in the process. Five minutes later, you wake up. Your house is engulfed in flames. You stumble outside. News choppers swirl overhead as three fire trucks tear around the corner. Now you’re on TV. Nothing makes sense, so you do the first thing that comes to mind. You pull down you pants, poised to ejaculate—and then, you stop—suddenly aware of the irony. Your lips curl into a furtive smile. “Life imitates art,” you suppose, just before you’re tackled to the ground, tased, and carted off to jail for indecent exposure.

And you thought closed-caption typos were harmless. Boy, were you wrong.

Old News

Astronomers have to stop calling images from space “new discoveries”. They’re not fooling anyone. This past week, the Hubble Space Telescope captured this image of spiral galaxy M81. It’s about 11.6 million light years from our solar system.


All that really means is that 11.6 million years ago, that’s what M81 looked like. Nobody knows what it looks like now. For all we know, it’s not even there anymore. Thanks for sucking, Hubble.

If I wanted to learn about shit 11.6 million years after it happened, I would just ask this lady to tell me about her childhood.

The way I see it, looking into deep space is like watching ESPN Classic. The game is only exciting for the few seconds prior to the realization that it ended like 20 years ago. Hubble is the ESPN classic of telescopes; it’s the most expensive VCR ever made. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of watching re-runs of the universe. The trouble is, we’re stuck here forever, and some jackass lost the remote.

Jewblivious

Marketing smoked ham to Jews for Chanukah is like trying to peddle iPod shuffles to the deaf.


Photo taken at Balducci’s on 8th Ave and 14th Street, on 12/2, by NancyKay. I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say they’re not a kosher establishment.

A Web Of Lies

As the current campaign for the presidency devolves into a series of baseless attacks, the need for a just, swift resolution is at hand. That’s why, in lieu of upcoming debates, Hillary Clinton and Barak Obama must fight to the death on the White House lawn. The victor will receive a Congressional Medal of Honor, the democratic nomination and a free Biggie-sized fries and fountain drink from Wendy’s.

According to USA Today, Sen. Clinton has cited statements made by Sen. Obama when he was a kindergartner in an effort to deflate his credibility. Here’s the skinny. When Obama was 5 years old, like 42 years ago, he wrote an essay about how he wanted to be the President. Therefore, his claim that he hasn’t been plotting a presidential run for years, according to Hilary, is a sinister, deceptive lie.

First of all, what the hell kind of 5-year-old writes essays? When I was in kindergarten I could barely read. Looking back, the only things I’d mastered were nose picking, nap-time and pissing in my pants. And I never gave much credence to silly things like future aspirations. I just assumed somewhere along the line I’d be tainted by radioactive waste and develop supernatural powers.

I’m still waiting.

Just remember, the campaign trail is no place for trivial bickering or crazy, unsubstantiated allegations. Oh, and before I forget, Barak Obama is an alien.


And Hilary Clinton will never be the first female president. Because she’s a man.

Pre-gaming

For many sports fans, tailgating is a pre-game ritual. There's no rulebook, but generally speaking, adequate preparation includes binge drinking and shoveling hot dogs down your throat like you're at Coney Island on the 4th of July.

But have you ever wondered how professional athletes prepare for big games? Surely they don't funnel beer in the parking lot like the rest of us.

I'm sure some athletes stretch, or pray, or listen to music, but up-and-coming English striker Ashley Young has his own routine. I'll give you a hint... it rhymes with dastermashun.

That's right, for Ashley, pre-game preparation involves three things: a cheap webcam, an unsuspecting voyeur, and no pants. I guess that's technically two things, but you get the picture.

I really doubt that's what the coach had in mind when he asked the team to work on ball handling.

For Your Edutainment

Darwin's Theory of Evolution, which is almost universally accepted in the scientific community, propounds that all life, from the chimpanzee to the banana, arose from a "primordial soup" teaming with microbes and other primitive life. Over hundreds of millions of years, species began to evolve through a process Darwin called "natural selection", whereby favorable traits--such as not looking like a fucking ape--were more likely to get you laid, and therefore, more readily passed on to future generations.

And since women prefer clean-shaven guys with good posture to disturbingly hairy, hunched-over monkey-men, homo sapiens eventually came out on top. And as they say, the rest is history.


Like I said, it's a theory.

But does Darwinian evolution really make sense? Did we really evolve from monkeys, and before that, from soup? Or is the truth so mysterious, so mind-bogglingly profound, that only a select few can even begin to comprehend it?


Imagine if you took the book of Genesis, a Babylon 5 script, and L. Ron Hubbard's diary, and threw it all in a blender. The resulting pulp would more or less resemble the Mormon creation myth. If you don't believe me, watch the Mormon Theology Cartoon at "GodTube". I swear. It's totally unbiased.

Other than Peter Pan, the Mormon version of creationism is probably my favorite story all time. It has everything: magic, intergalactic warfare, space aliens, and "endless celestial sex" between God and his gaggle of wives. Here's the basics:

God is an astronaut. The Virgin Mary was actually not a virgin. Upon his resurrection, Jesus came to America (yes, the United States of America) to spread the truth among the Indians. Nonbelievers turned black. And once all was well, 1,700 years later, God chose a prophet from upstate New York to discover the true history of the universe so that the Mormon religion might one day stake its claim to the great state of Utah.

Say what you will, but in my humble opinion, you can't make that shit up.

When it comes to the mystery of creation, I'll take the galactic mumbo-jumbo over Precambrian gumbo any day. If nothing else, it makes for better textbooks.

Badvertising

If there's any question as to whether or not advertising is a colossal scam, this should settle the score:

A £125,000 campaign to replace Scotland's Best Small Country In The World tag has been unveiled. And the exciting new catchphrase dreamed up by top advertising brains is... "Welcome to Scotland".

Welcome to Scotland? Can you even copyright that? If I was Scotland, I would be livid. Not because the tag is so simple. But because, even if you paid me a quarter million dollars, I'd be hard pressed to come up with a worse tagline. Trust me. I tried. In fact, the only slogan I came up with that even approaches the shittiness of "Welcome to Scotland" is "Scotland: It's a Country". And even that has a nice ring to it.

The point is this. Taglines are supposed to be ambiguous. If a tagline makes sense, it's not effective. Taglines should be the source of endless confusion, and cripple rational thought processes. They should paradoxically make absolutely no sense, and absolute sense, simultaneously.

Take Nike's slogan, "Just do it". It's brilliant. Nobody knows what it means. I don't even think Nike knows what it means. But I'll tell you what, I can definitely get down with doing it. Especially if Michael Jordan tells me to. Or, DeBeers. They say, "A Diamond Is Forever". Even if a diamond is forever (whatever that entails) won't whoever you give it to be dead by the time forever rolls around? Still, it's a tempting prospect... I'll take two. Then there's McDonald's tagline, "I'm lovin' it". I don't know what I'm supposed to be lovin' but I sincerely doubt it's the McChicken sandwiches or the chronic diarrhea.

Here's the kicker. For whatever reason, badvertising works. That's why I've developed the tagline to end all taglines. It works universally, for every product, everywhere. It's simple. It's perfect. It's three letters long.


Yep. It works like a charm.

Inadvisable

Since Cooking With Pooh costs $101.65 at Amazon.com, I doubt it will ever take off. On a serious note, if baking feces-chip cookies has EVER crossed your mind, kindly kill yourself. The world already has enough people that are full of shit.

The Second Worst Song Of All Time

Remember Tay Zonday? Yeah, me either. But someone did. And they decided it was a good idea to finance a sequel to his cult classic 'Chocolate Rain'. The new video is a three minute ode to why Zonday, who now goes by T.A.Y. to the Z, is a shining role model for creepy people the world over, and living proof that anyone can make it. Even if you look like a ventriloquist dummy.

If you can stomach it...


The video was pretty lame until about halfway though, at which point (to the astute observer) Zonday's virginity becomes painfully obvious when he awkwardly attempts to hand-feed cherries to a woman sitting on a couch. Then, out of the blue, a squirrel--which I'm pretty sure was an actual dead, stuffed squirrel--gets smothered in liquid chocolate.

It turns out, the whole charade was a commercial for the new Cherry Chocolate Dr. Pepper. I was a little ticked at first. But then I realized something. I live in a country where a terrible idea and a knack for being unfathomably devoid of talent will take you straight to the top. And I thought you had to marry Britney Spears. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

1000 Words

Either Phil Michelson just missed an important putt, or that guy in the background (who appears to have been raised by a pack of wolves) has the art of the mating call down pat.


Sweet merciful Jesus! Someone get this woman a gold medal. Just throw it in the water. But careful, she looks hungry.


To be perfectly honest, I'm not really sure if I'm looking at a professional diver...


...or the Great Cornholio.


For more brilliantly-timed sports photos, check out Daily Rumors.

What Goes Up...

Life is like a bell curve. You start off trapped in the womb. It's hard to remember this period of life, but I assure you, it sucks. Being a fetus is probably a lot like being tied up inside a bowl of applesauce... for nine months. When you get out, things don't get much better. Until you're about 5, let's face it, you don't really know what's going on. You can barely put coherent sentences together and the vast majority of your time is spent crying, sleeping, or crying because your uncaring guardians force you to go to sleep immediately after the sun sets.

But then it gets better. Before you know it, you're a miniature human being, chatting up a storm, running around like a madman, watching TV and stuffing your face with Dunkaroos and nachos. Slowly but surely you're handed responsibility that you don't deserve. Suddenly, you can drive, vote and poison your liver. But after 25, as far as I can tell, everything goes violently downhill. To all the nay-sayers, take a look at this highly scientific chart, painstakingly crafted in MS Paint:

There are no positive milestones beyond the age of 25. There's only one life-sucking, freak occurrence after another. What have I got to look forward to? Divorce? Prostate cancer? Death? When I was young I used to dream about my future as an astronaut or a paleontologist. I'm neither. And now, all I can think about is my impending, catastrophic downfall.

Thanks, life. Thanks a lot.

Mister Splashy Pants

Greenpeace has saved another whale. Ordinarily, I'd ignore the story and go back to polluting the environment, but some unknown force compelled me to read on. Generally, rescued whales are tagged and promptly named Willy, or something equally trite. But in this case, Greenpeace decided to leave the naming up to the dopey, glassy-eyed masses.

"More than 11,000 possible whale names were submitted but we are now down to the last 30 possible whale names. Choose your favourite name from among the 30 below and hit the submit button at the bottom of the page. The voting ends on the 30th of November 2007 at 17:00 Amsterdam time."

One name choice, Kaimana, means 'divine power of the ocean' in Polynesian. Another, Amal, translates to 'hope' in Arabic. But one name shines above the rest: Mister Splashy Pants (which doesn't translate to a goddamn thing, as you probably imagined).

It goes without saying, I cast my vote for Mister Splashy Pants immediately. When the page refreshed, and the leader-board materialized, you can imagine my overwhelming glee when saw...


I'm no soothsayer, but if you've ever dreamed of being part of something great, I'm gonna go ahead and say this is probably your chance.

Vote Splashy Pants, here.

Facebook Unleashed

In the old days, leashes were the domain of domesticated animals and the occasional dominatrix. Not anymore. Today’s parents simply strap a harness across their kid’s chest, grab the reins, and hope to keep their offspring on course like they're running a suburban Iditarod. This Facebook group takes issue with the burgeoning child/leash phenomenon. They feel bad for the kids. You know who needs the sympathy? The leash. The only thing keeping some hyperactive little snot off the third-rail is a measly piece of nylon. That’s a great deal of pressure to put on an inanimate object. The group purports, “if I was put on a leash I would be scarred for life.” That’s a bit dramatic, and actually, scientifically flawed. Scarred for life is what happens when an unwieldy child runs into the middle of the road when he hears the ice cream truck coming. Truth be told, when one considers the next logical step in terms of child rearing – the taser – a leash seems like, well... child’s play.

For more strange but true Facebook groups, check out my article at mental_floss magazine.

Thanksdorking

If you're like me, Thanksgiving consists of stuffing a turkey, your face, and passing out on the floor in front of the TV with your fly unzipped. For my money, there's no better way to celebrate the wholesale slaughter of the natives. But for the folks at Wired, there's more to Turkey Day than meets the eye. They've been kind -- and nerdy -- enough to put all the Thanksgiving classics under the microscope. Literally.

Mmm... molecular gravy...

An Inconvenient Truth

When you look up the word "fucked" in the dictionary, chances are, you'll find a picture like this one. Can someone throw the poor thing a rope? Or at least a pot of honey? I mean, look at him. He can't even lay down. He just has to sit there like a goddamn toucan, perched on this tiny mound of ice. Since Al Gore won't run for president, I demand a detailed plan to stop global warming from each of the candidates. Except Mike Huckabee. We all know what his plan is. Chuck Norris.

What the Chuck?

What follows is a chronological account of my inner monologue during this video:

2 Seconds: I wonder if I could eat just one Lay's potato chip?
5 Seconds: Oh, fuck. Mike Huckabee.
8 Seconds: Hey! It's chuck Norris...
9 Seconds: Did he just say Chuck Norris?
13 Seconds: Wait, is Chuck Norris seriously your fucking plan to save the borders?
26 Seconds: Wow... he is serious.
36 Seconds: Did he just say that with a straight face?
47 Seconds: When was the last time Chuck Norris told America "how it's gonna be?" The Total Gym commercial? The only people who still like Chuck Norris are the 14 year old boys who tell Chuck Norris jokes, like the dumb one you just said about push-ups. And they can't even vote.
53 Seconds: Why?
55 Seconds: Really, Chuck?
59 Seconds: I'm moving to Canada.

Double Team

After yesterday's ritual slaughter of the Buffalo Bills, it's pretty clear the Patriots cannot be beaten. So, in an effort to level the playing field, the New England Patriots must play two teams instead of one for the remainder of the season. There are only six weeks left. During this time, teams scheduled for a bye must join forces with whoever is slated to play the Patriots. As a result, the Patriot's opponents will field twice the usual number of players at any given time. Teams will also be encouraged to tackle Randy Moss at the line of scrimmage whether or not he is near the ball, without fear of penalty. Finally, if the Patriots reach the Super Bowl, Tom Brady cannot play. Instead, the Patriots will be required to raffle off the spot of starting QB to a lucky fan during halftime of their next home game.

That should do the trick.

Better Never, Than Late

One of my biggest pet peeves is when I think of something brilliant that already exists. It happens to me all the time. Some would say, "maybe your ideas aren't that brilliant." Unlikely. Maybe too many things exist. My latest stroke of genius proves it.

Have you ever hated someone so much you wish you could shit on their face? Me too. That's why I invented George W. Bush toilette paper. I even had a tagline "Wipe away that stupid smirk." The only problem is, someone already invented it. Figures.

Puppeteering for Peace

If you take the subway with any regularity, sooner or later, you will witness a fight. When human beings are corralled into a dingy steel box that screeches like a banshee in giving birth to overweight triplets, Murphy's Law is at its finest. Fortunately, the altercations are mind-numbingly formulaic. So it’s easy to see them coming. They almost always involve coffee and a crabby guy wearing plaid shirt, with a duffel bag at his feet. I don’t know what’s in the duffle bag. But there’s always a duffle bag. More often than not the spat dissolves peacefully, but the guy in plaid invariably yells something like, "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Keep walking, bitch!" as the other gets off the train.

This morning was no different. All the pieces of the puzzle were in place: the coffee, the plaid, and the duffel bag. Out of nowhere, but unsurprisingly to a seasoned observer, an argument erupted, as if an invisible chemical reaction between the plaid and the caffeine were at play. But as the heated shouting match spilled out onto the platform, the most unlikely chain of events in subway fight history transpired before my very eyes...

A puppet, perched atop a cardboard castle, swayed soulfully as it lip-synced "Easy" by Lionel Richie. The men stopped in their tracks and just stood there, side-by-side, rapt. The fight was over. The masterful puppeteer, David Marin, had saved the day. It was the most curiously beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.