Nickel And Dimed

You may have heard that American Airlines is now charging passengers $15 for each checked suitcase on domestic flights, in order to cover soaring fuel prices.

Think that's bad business? Sometimes it's helpful to put things in perspective.

Imagine if Taco Bell required costumers to bring their own roll of toilet paper, citing rising sales of the 89 Cent Cheesy Double Beef Burrito.

Now that's a shitty policy.

Twitter

You may have noticed the strange Twitter logo off to the right. If you click it, you'll be taken to my Twitter page. But what's Twitter? And why should you care?

To answer in reverse order: caring is debatable. But, if I haven't posted in a few days, you might find updates on my Twitter page. It's where I'll write anything and everything that comes to mind (in 140 characters or less.)

Some people write things like "Eating pizza at UNO's. Yum." on their Twitter page. I will not be taking this approach. Unless I'm eating hamster testicles on Fear Factor, you won't hear about it. I will, however, be posting random thoughts and off-color commentary. A lot like this blog, only shorter, and surrounded by fluffy white clouds (you'll see what I mean when you get there.)

Enjoy.

Yahoo!

Today, I was going to write about how the Iranian President (sorry, too lazy to look up the correct spelling of his name) looks a lot like Butt-Head.


Sort of uncanny, right?

But then, my train of thought was unceremoniously derailed. Do me a favor: turn your speakers on, head over to Yahoo! and click on the exclamation point on the logo. [Seriously, do it.]

An exclamation point that yodels?? I defy you to tell me that's not the most obnoxious goddamn thing on the face of the earth. If there is something stupider out there, I'm all ears.

An Open Letter To Blogger

Dear Blogger Support Staff,

Whenever I try to edit a post you tell me, "We're sorry, but we were unable to complete your request." Listen, you don't have to lie. I know you're not sorry. And I know you didn't really try to complete my request, so "unable" isn't all that accurate either.

I wish the error message said it like it is. Maybe something like, "Oh, looks like you can't edit your posts. Tough shit. There's no support staff. But you can try your luck at the rinky-dink Blogger Error Code Message Board. Sure it's staffed by morons who have no intention of answering your question. Sure the chances it will actually help you are remote, at best. But it makes us look like we're trying (even though we're not)."

By the way, I'm fairly certain there's no such thing as Blogger support staff, which more or less precludes the fact that you care.

Love,
Evan

P.S. Please stop taunting me with incomprehensible error messages; "bX-yipc2c" means nothing to me. And you don't know what it means either.

Bill O'Roid Rage

And the Emmy for "Best Asshole in a Newscast" goes to... you guessed it: Bill O'Reilly. I must say, this clip is pretty shocking. Even for him. And I don't just mean his full head of hair. I haven't seen a guy this mad since Jack Black punted Ron Burgundy's dog off a bridge.


Go fuck yourself, San Diego.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua

According to the upfront title card, the trailer for Beverly Hills Chihuahua was approved by the MPAA for "all audiences." There's clearly been a mistake. All audiences is pretty broad. It includes the young and old, the rich and poor, and every shape, size and color in between. And I assure you, this trailer isn't fit for any of the above.

Beverly Hills Chihuahua is Disney's latest forey into steaming bullshit that even children can't appreciate. The trailer begins with a sweeping, overhead shot of the ancient Aztec empire. Majestic Mesoamerica: the falls, the mountains, the stone step pyramids. Then, we hear the raspy drawl of a narrator: "My name is Bobby. I am descended from an ancient line of proud warriors. My ancestors went into battle alongside Aztec soldiers... " So we're clear, your great, great, great, great, great grandfather was named Montezuma, but your name is Bobby? Questionable, at best.

Shortly thereafter, we find out Bobby is a chihuahua. And then we learn he and his kin have infiltrated the highest rungs of society--the elite of Beverly Hills, apparently--before breaking into a creepy synchronized dance routine slash salsa/rap song. And that's about all I can tell you, because my eyes started watering, and I think I had a mild brain aneurysm.

The MPAA may approve of this trailer, but don't. You should probably sit down for this.



When I came to, thinking hoping it was all a bad dream, I decided to investigate. I assured myself it was just an elaborate hoax. But then I came across the poster for the film. And read the tagline: 50% warrior. 50% lover. 100% Chihuahua. That's when I 100% considered jumping out of my office's 8th floor window.


I guess the only question is, what will they think of next? Oh, that's right, Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2.

Guilty, And Guilty

From the Houston Chronicle:

Judge Sherman Ross tried to assemble a jury of peers for a woman accused of possession of a marijuana on trial Tuesday. Ross said he realized something was wrong when juror No. 2, Cornelia Mayo [the lady with the pothead sign above her head], didn't return from a 45-minute break. Before the judge could file a bench warrant for the missing juror, his bailiff got a call from police notifying him that Mayo was being booked on a charge of smoking marijuana outside the courthouse.

Granted, marijuana affects the memory--that's what Half Baked says, right? I can't remember. Anyhow, if you're serving on a jury, and the case is about marijuana possession, I'm guessing getting arrested for marijuana possession during the trial pretty much disqualifies you from jury duty. But it could be worse, Cornelia Mayo. It could be far worse.

Imagine you were a juror for a murder trial. Everything's going great. (Well, for you anyway. Obviously not so great for the dude who was murdered.) Anyway, it's been a tough case. And you head outside for a much needed lunch break. After a few bites of your meatball sub, you decide to decapitate a few pedestrians walking by the courthouse.

You would get so fired.

Happy Law Day!

What? Law Day?

That's right. Law Day. Fuck May Day anyway, right? Today, George W. Bush declared:

"In accordance with Public Law 87-20, as amended, I do hereby proclaim May 1, 2008, as Law Day, U.S.A. I call upon all the people of the United States to observe this day with appropriate ceremonies and activities. I also call upon Government officials to display the flag of the United States in support of this national observance."

Is it just me, or should a man who's committed as many crimes as Bush not be allowed to invent holidays about obeying laws? He asked Americans to "renew our commitment to the ideals on which this great Nation was established and to a robust system of ordered liberty."

In case you were wondering, "ordered liberty" is Orwellian for "you're free to do as you're told." Now I wasn't a big fan of laws before, so maybe I'm biased, but if you ask me, George W. Bush proclaiming Law Day is like a haggard old prostitute declaring STD Awareness Day. And I'd sooner trust a lady of the night than I would a Yale graduate you can't speak in public without smirking like a four year old.

[Source: The White House]

Ku Klux Target

As a copywriter, I would have gone with "Kid's Computer Desk (Black)".


The only lingering question: is the computer desk for white people white? Or does the computer desk for white kids actually have a computer? Either way, I'm offended. Amused is probably more accurate, actually, but let's go with offended. I'm offended.

Hooray Science!

Back in the day people used to invent stuff. They used to ponder life. Remember Socrates? "The unexamined life is not worth living." Well, we've come a long way; unfortunately, we've gone a long way in the wrong direction. So now, instead of studying the earth and cosmos, cataloging species and discovering the miracles of science, we drop minty candies in sugar water. It's not an experiment, per se, since we know exactly what's going to happen...

But for fuck's sake, when you put candy in soda it rains liquid sugar!! It's like miracle. A gooey-coke-geysery-miracle. Yay! Let's videotape it and take lots of pictures. And we'll all wear blue ponchos, and put it on YouTube. Maybe we'll make the top ten, and oh, sweet Jesus, I'm all sticky now... and wet... and... man, what the hell are we doing with our lives?

West Coast Exploits

I've been slacking; I know. But I have an excuse. I've been across the country, gallivanting in sunny (except when I was there, apparently) California. Here's the recap:

First stop: San Fransisco. My company threw a party at the W Hotel for one of our clients. After the party, the manager of the hotel told us, (and this is a direct quote), "We have never had so many broken glasses. Ever."

The following morning, half-drunk and bleary-eyed, I took the olde-tyme cable car. Yes, that cable car--the one they turn around manually by leaning on it until it begins to lurch clockwise. During the ride, I did not see the house from the show "Full House." Yes, I looked.

As I rode the "subway" out to the burbs, it struck me how unimaginably windy the tracks were. They weave in and out of people's back yards like the Colorado River. It's called eminent domain; knock some goddamn houses down.

My friend and I plop down at a bar. We order sangria. More specifically, we order two GIGANTIC pitchers of sangria. Despite our aptitude for guzzling alcohol, the old female bartender swiftly emasculates us by reminding us we're drinking wine.

I hop a plane to LA. For some inexplicable reason it is colder than San Fransisco. (Okay, not inexplicable; I'm sure it has something to do with cumulus clouds, or moisture, or El Nino, but to me, LA is south, it should be warmer.)

I eat Chinese food at a place called "Mao's" in Hollywood. No one seems to mind that the restaurant is littered with pictures of the Chairman in crazy Hitler power poses. Or that the waitress is a hipster with red hair and a lip ring. Or--and this is the worst part--that the duck sauce is brown and tastes like Pete Sampras' feet.

At a gay bar in West Hollywood some guy introduces himself to me three times. Each time he uses the exact same opening line. The third time, after I tell him he's already done this twice, he looks embarrassed, and tells me, "I'm really bad at this," to which I reply, "I'm straight." That's when he stopped introducing himself.

At some point in the night, my friend is roofied. We discovered this when he decides to urinate in a can and take a nap in the bathroom in the fetal position. Not that I'm suggesting he should have slept in a can and urinated in the bathroom. But still, something was amiss.

Back to NY on Virgin America. I'm sure you've heard the stories: mood lighting, lounge music, sassy flight attendants, leather chairs. You may not have heard about the in-flight chat feature, though, which is easily the best part. I tried to stike up a conversation with an old lady in first class who looked like Cruella de Vil; she ignored me.

Now I'm back. And it's like 80 degrees in NYC. Go figure.

Crazy Elevator Lady

Crazy people. Whether it's their questionable choice of attire or their absolute disregard for social mores, they never fail to brighten my day.

When I first got to NYC, about a year and a half ago, these people stood out like bat-shit-crazy sore thumbs. On my way to work one day I saw a guy pretending to give a live TV weather report right in the middle of a busy intersection (only without cameras, or a microphone, or a fucking clue what he was talking about.) He just kept saying words like "precipitation" and "easterly winds" completely out of context. Another time, in Duane Read, I noticed a lady rummaging through the candy isle mumbling incoherently. Finally, she settled on some sort of industrial-sized bag of Twizzlers, before turning to me and explaining how the FBI was after her, and that she needed Twizzlers for her escape. Then, at Penn Station one day, while waiting in line for tickets, I noticed a man walk calmly up to a trash can, reach in for a Big Gulp, and suck the last bit of liquid through the straw like a Shop Vac, before tossing it aside nonchalantly.

And then, there's my favorite. The craziest of the crazies... the elevator lady. Yes, that's the actual elevator lady. Someone else, obviously captivated by this woman, uploaded a video of her to YouTube. There's 8 million people living in NYC, but strangely it makes perfect sense that I found her in about 30 seconds by typing "crazy NYC subway lady" into Google. I've never seen anything like the elevator lady.

She was furious, sneering across the subway platform at a normal-looking couple standing in front of an elevator. "Fuckin' elevator. Fuckin' idiots. Think they're taking the elevator. Those idiots," she spat.

This went on for some time. I doubted the elevator lady knew this couple, but she seemed thoroughly invested in their lives. I was intrigued so I kept listening. She chuckled to herself and threw up her hands. "Hey morons!" she shouted, through cupped hands. A few people turned at which point she went back to a quiet mumble. The couple across the platform was completely oblivious.

I was convinced the show was over. But then, out of nowhere, like she heard some sort of crazy-person-dog-whistle that only she could hear, she bolted off, straight toward the couple. I wondered if I should warn them. I decided against it. What would I say? "A crazy lady might push you in front of a subway"? I didn't want to be liable for whatever was about to happen. Instead, I just stood there and watched:

She march right up to them and immediately got to work, trying her best to jar the pair of unsuspecting strangers from their quiet, sane existence. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but her hands were doing most of the talking, anyway. As she spoke, the man looked confused. But as she went on, pointing and blabbering, a look of concern overcame him. Then, the crazy lady began to make emphatic hand gestures at the elevator. Stomping her feet.

Suddenly a train pulled into the station. The lady took off as if nothing had happened. The couple looked relieved, and unbelievably perplexed. I decided to approach them.

"What did she say to you guys?" I asked.

"She said something about the elevator being out-of-order. But way crazier than the way I just said it," the man's wife replied.

I nodded. I looked at the elevator; it looked fine. Moments later, as my train chugged into the station on the opposite track, the elevator door opened and a group of passengers filed out.

"Fuckin' idiots," I thought to myself, smiling, as I boarded my train home.

Break It Up

I guarantee this video will shock you (unless you've seen two chickens break up a rabbit fight).



Lucky for you, I speak rabbit. And chicken. Here's what went down.

White Rabbit: Fuck you, bunnayyyyyy!
Spotted Rabbit: Fuck me? Fuck you!
White Rabbit: Oh, it's on bro.
Chicken #1: BYAAAAAH!!!
White Rabbit: Ow! That's my ear, asshole.
Chicken #1: You just got saaaaaaaaaacckked.
Chicken #2: Just keepin' the peace, guys.
Spotted Rabbit: We were just having som---
Chicken #2: KEEPING THE PEACE!!
Spotted Rabbit: Man, someone's been eating growth hormones.
White Rabbit: Seriously...
Chicken #1: Say it again. I dare you.
Chicken #2: That's what I thought.

Lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely

At a recent NATO summit meeting, President Bush received a warm greeting from the world's leaders.

And by "warm greeting" I mean he stood there alone, daydreaming about crinkle-cut french fries, while everyone else was having the best time ever.

[Via: Some German site that I can't read]

Mars Bitches

April Fools joke? A nod to Dave Chappelle? I'm guessing the former, but either way, somewhere, somehow, Carl Sagan's rotting remains just got a boner.

It appears Virgin and Google have teamed up to send 20 earthlings to Mars, beginning in 2014. And not just any earthlings... YouTube-earthlings. But don't take my word for it; take it from the big, British virgin himself, Richard Bronson:


As you can see, this will not be a joy ride. The goal is colonization. Permanently. On Mars. They've even picked the future "Plymouth Rock" of the Red Planet: the Lunae planum area of the north side of Kasei Valles (wherever the fuck that is.)

Overall, I think it's a great idea. With one glaring exception. Is it just me, or is YouTube the worst possible place to advertise this? Shouldn't they be flyering Harvard, or MIT, or you know, like NASA, or some shit? What caliber of space traveler do they think they're going to attract from YouTube? The most popular video this month (with over 4 million views) is the trailer for Ben Stiller's new movie, "Tropic Thunder". It's not like these idiots are watching lectures about particle physics. Those videos have like 12 views. Collectively.

I don't know about you, but I don't want the "Leave Britney Alone" kid to be the first human on Mars. Come to think of it, I don't want anyone to go to Mars based on a 30-second YouTube video. Imagine some aliens land on Mars and see our YouTube colony! We'd be the laughing-stock of the entire galaxy. Maybe even the Universe.

I'm sure a lot of "planning" went into this and whatnot, but maybe they should call the whole thing off. I'm not comfortable with KevJumba in space.

The Glass Is Half Full

Introducing: the machine that can turn a "50 gallon drum of urine" into potable water.



Oh, and it could eradicate 50% of human disease, too. That's pretty good, I guess... as long as you're an optimist.

[Via: The Colbert Report]

5 Dolla Foot Loooong

I told myself I was going to stop patronizing (shopping at, not condescending) Subway (the restaurant, not the tunnel) a while back when they refused to honor one of THEIR OWN gift cards. After a few minutes of totally unnecessary bargaining, they sent me on my way, turkey sandwich in hand.

One should never have to negotiate for government cheese.

I hadn't been there in some time. Maybe a few weeks. The franchise owners at my local Subway must have noticed that I'd been boycotting their store. And they must have relayed this to the corporate office, cause they've been trying to win me back ever since with their new advertising campaign; a mind-numbing jingle that haunts my dreams.

Since the "5 dollar footlong" campaign launched I've eaten several Subway sandwiches. I don't see the trend ending either; they have this big sign out front that reduces me to Pavlov's dog whenever I walk by. Worst of all, I think they know that I'm powerless to inexpensive, lengthy food. I swear I spotted this sly little grin on the cashier's face last time he rang me up. Shifty bastard.

He definitely knows.

Burger Police

Have a listen to this most unusual 911 call. Don't worry, I'll wait.



If I were the 911 dispatcher, I would certainly have sent a deputy... this woman should be locked up immediately.

Bats Perish, And I Know Why

Today the New York Times ran a story called: "Bats Perish, and No One Knows Why." I guess 90% of the bat population has died off in the Northeast, and eco-batologist-types are worried the world is about to end. Worst of all, no one knows why this is happening... no one... except me.

Here are the facts: Bats hang out in pitch black caves year-round. When they leave their dreary, subterranean dens, they seem to keel over and die. Why am I not surprised?

First off, bats are just about the weirdest looking thing left on the planet.

Yikes. It's furry and translucent. That's a winning combo. The truth is, weird looking things inevitably die off. Take the dodo bird, for instance. It looks like an albatross raped a pigeon. EXTINCT. Or the woolly mammoth. Some people say Native Americans killed them off. Nope. They're just ugly. Think about it, what's uglier than an elephant... that's right, an elephant covered in shaggy, brown hair. EXTINCT.

As for bats, I'm pretty sure it was Darwin who said, "animals that look like miniature-pterodactyl-mice will perish." It's probably on page 1 of that book he wrote that Creationists hate so much. The only time furry, translucent creatures get any ass is when they're in dark caves. It's a lot like how drunk people--who would otherwise find each other revolting--hook up in dimly lit dive bars. If you can't see who you're banging, it's hard to object.

And that, my friends, is why bats have lasted so long. It's the caves. Plain and simple. If they keep leaving their caves, venturing out into broad daylight, they will inevitably, and steadily, decline as a species.

Shit-And-Run

Uh, oh...
Click image to enlarge
Let recap: A homeless man broke into the HOMELAND SECURITY offices in BROAD DAYLIGHT on a FRIDAY AFTERNOON. And then, he took a dump in, not one, but SEVERAL rooms before escaping without a trace (or is it skid mark?)

He must really hate our freedom.

It's Pork, Suckers

If you happen to be extremely high right now, the idea of a bacon infused lollipop probably doesn't seem like such a bad idea. But I'm sober. And I can tell you with absolute certainty: it's a bad idea. It's a very bad idea. But that didn't stop the crack-team over at Lollyphile, developers of the self-proclaimed "least kosher lollipop in the history of candy," the Maple-Bacon-Lollipop.

And you thought Americans were fat enough.

The last time I craved meat-wrapped candy was, well... pretty much never. But since they're only 52 dollars for a package of 36, I'll take none. Thanks Lollyphile, don't quit your day job. Oh, wait. You already did. And you started a company called Lollyphile. Here's the back-story, from their website's about section:

"We started waaaaaay back around Halloween of 2007 when we found ourselves with a lot of absinthe and no candy. One thing led to another, and we ended up getting picked up by a few candy boutiques and building a website, which got way more business than we'd ever expected it would."

No shit. Your business started with a bottle of absinthe and no candy. So you were drunk/hallucinating and decided, "hey, let's put some pork on a lollipop." And now you're rich 'cause a bunch of idiots are willing to pay $52 for a box of pork-pops.

I don't care what you say. That's the American Dream.

Really Crude Oil

The price of gasoline hit an all-time high today. According to Reuters, "The rise in pump prices comes as crude oil vaults to new peaks near $110 per barrel amid an increase in speculative investing in commodities and concerns that world energy consumption will outpace new supply."

I have no idea what that means. But I do know this:

$110 a barrel. 20 gallon tank. Carry the 1... I'd say the price to fill up an SUV today is roughly equivalent to 45 seconds with one of Governor Eliot Spitzer's whores.

Now, I sort of understand paying $4.00 per gallon on gas. It's basically the same as a gallon of milk. And squeezing utters is a whole lot easier than drilling oil wells in the middle of the desert. Especially with all the bullets whizzing by. But 5 grand an hour for a hooker? That's just absurd. It's 2008. Hookers are free. It's called Craig's List: Casual Encounters, Governor... or should I say Eliot?

He hasn't officially resigned, but Google's already replaced him. And Google pretty much knows everything.

The Audacity Of Pigeons

Fuck pigeons.

These rash little motherfuckers seem to have conspired against me city-wide. You probably think I'm joking. "Oh that's funny. Pigeons don't conspire," you'll say. No. It's not funny. And yes, they do. I swear upon all that is holy, at least once a day, a pigeon flies two inches over my head without warning. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of their poor judgment and utter disregard for my safely. I'm also sick of their white, pasty shit falling from the sky--but that's another story.

Listen pigeon, if I'm walking down the sidewalk, and you're pecking away at a morsel of rye, there is no reason--I repeat: NO REASON--to flip out, flap your wings frantically, and take off like a scud missile in the direction of my face.

I don't deserve this. Please stop.

If one more of you reckless, irresponsible bastards so much as jostles a hair on my head, I'll be forced to plant bread crumbs soaked in arsenic around the city. Either that, or I'm going to get a hat fitted with those anti-roosting bird spikes. Maybe getting impaled will teach you to calm the fuck down.

Score One For Decrepit Old People!

John McCain secured the Republican nomination last light with victories in Texas and Ohio. He even had this big sign that said "1191". I'm not sure if that's his age or the year he was born, but either way, he's pushing a millennium.

In other really-old-white-guy news, Larry King attempted to move gracefully on national television. As it turns out, teaching Larry King how to dance is like trying to teach a quadriplegic to walk. He looked like a robot with a short circuit. At one point, when Janet Jackson attempted to pry his stiff, ossified arm from the side of his lifeless body, he mumbled, with a discernible hint of despair, "I'm a struggling Jew" before giving up altogether. If you watch one video for the rest of your life, make it this one:



Interestingly, the feeling I get when I watch Larry King dance is the same feeling I got when John McCain kissed his wife after his victory speech: some things are just not meant for public consumption.

You Might Be A Redneck If...

You think taking a trip to Wal-Mart is like going to Cinderella's ball.


[Source: Some guy's Flickr.]