YouTube Madness!!!

The Best Scenes from "The Wicker Man"



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Old Spice Commerical starring Bruce Campbell



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Spanish FOX Sports commercial



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Season 2 Promo for "Election"

The Great Psychic Bathroom Experiment

My work bathroom is tight. Literally.

There's only one urinal, and that's usually unflushed, full of extremely yellowish-orange leftovers. There are two stalls, but unless you get lucky and the prime handicapable stall real estate is open, you have to cram yourself into the "normie" stall nestled tightly in the middle.

Because of the cramped quarters, whenever I'm in one of the stalls going about my business and someone walks in, I become extremely still, like I'm hiding from a T-Rex, or robbing a bank and the security guard just strolled by on his nightly walk-through. Of course, in this case, it's the exact opposite of stealing.

I not only stop all movement and paper ruffling, but also avoid dropping anything else into the toilet. When the newcomer leaves, I start again. This probably has less to do with me trying to be polite and more to do with my mostly-irrational fear of the new guy making fun of my puny dumpling upon hearing the tiny splash.

During one of my silent moments today, I got to thinking. Am I the only one who does this? Do other folks, in mid-defecation, freeze when they hear someone else entering the bathroom, and then start again once they leave?

I know there must be a few others like me out there, because there's been a handful of times when I've tried to open a stall door, only to find that it's been locked, currently occupied. In those cases, the occupant must have been keeping silent on purpose, or else I would have probably picked up on it. Toilet deposits are a messy business after all, with a lot of motion and odd noises.

Later, during my 2nd round, I opened the bathroom door and took a moment before heading towards the handicapable stall door. Was it occupied? I didn't her anything, but I felt another presence there. Almost like a psychic phenomenon. And, in fact, when I tried to open it, someone was in there, being as still as they could until I left, which I did immediately, since I could relate to this anoymous defecompadre.

On my way out, it got me thinking again. I'm sure you've all felt, at some time or another, the feeling of someone nearby, only to find out that your feelings were right.

With that in mind, I present to you The Great Bathroom Psychic Experiment!

To try this experiment you'll need two things:

1. A bathroom at work (or any non-public restroom) that has more than one stall.
2. The urge to urinate or defecate.

Step 1: When nature calls head over to the bathroom.

Step 2: Upon opening the door, take a moment to "feel out" the situation. If (a) you can see someone inside or; (b) you can hear any motion (rustling of papers, flush, fart, etc.) then the experiment is void.

Step 3: If you can't hear anyone or see any evidence of someone else's presence, stand by the door for 5 seconds. During this time ask yourself "Do I feel another presence? Is someone in there with me?"

Step 4: Once the 5 seconds are up, head to the stall and find out for yourself. You can listen for movement, try to open the stall yourself, or peek underneath for feet.

Step 5: Go about your business.

Step 6: When you return to your desk, record your results.

Is there such thing as a psychic connection between people? Can you tell someone is in the bathroom without any actual sensory evidence?

Do a few attempts, maybe 10 or so, then leave me a comment with your results. When I'm satisfied with the numbers of entries, I'll send them off to Coast to Coast, where Art Bell and/or George Noory will bestow upon me an honorory Strange Phenomenon Hunter crown, to be worn during all of my future experiments.

We're on the brink of something extraordinary here, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you in advance for your participation.

Kickin' ass and takin' names, Pelosi-style

There's still 90+ hours left in the Democrats first 100 hours of Republican ass-whomping, but they don't really have to accomplish much before being seen as superior to the previous incarnation.

From The Week:

Of the 383 bills that were signed into law during the recently adjoined 109th Congress, more than one-qyarter dealth with naming or renaming federal buildings, primarily post offices.

I am a Man of Inquiry

During this seemingly year-long memorial of Gerald Ford, a whole lot of people have their flags at half-mast, and it got me wondering. When are you allowed to put your flag back up all the way? Is there some protocol for the importance of the individual? As a matter of fact, there is.

From Ask a Guru:

When a president or former president dies (or as you so eloquently put it, croaks) the flag must be flown half-mast for thirty days. Ten days for a vice president, chief of justice or a retired chief of justice, or speaker of the house of representatives.

So the amount of time the flags down is firmly established, but there's another interesting tidbit I came across in my research. According to an anonymous source:

To keep the free speech rights of our forefathers intact, there's an written rule about the placement of the flag. Every person who puts up a flag has the right to their own point of view. If they feel the person being memorialized was worthy of their thoughts, they are allowed to place the flag up to three inches higher than the midpoint of the pole (one inch = good, two inches = better, three inches = best). In the same way, if they weren't big fans of the dead, they would lower the flag up to three inches, the difference of inches meaning the same.

Keep that in mind when you're looking at your post office's or fire department's flags. Does the flag seem a little low to you? If you're unsure, take a ruler to the pole. They are obligated, by law, to let you measure it for yourself. They are free to speak their mind, but they have to own up for it too.

Suspicions

I've had a hard time believing the government ever since they lied about tracking Santa Claus on NORAD.

Don't you dare blame Dennis Farina!

On the Rosie vs. Donald feud, I've decided that Rosie's to blame, if only because she single-handedly ruined the "Stakeout" franchise.

A Question of Decorum

When your cat dies, how long do you have to wait until you purchase a new one? Is it wrong to get a new one that very night?

If not, why doesn't someone open up a drive-thru kind of Store-etary where you fling your deceased cat's carcass into the first window (The Incinerator Room), drive up to a cat menu to find the replacement, and make the purchase at the third window?

(Note: This won't work for dogs. They have souls.)

If anyone can put a business plan together for this idea, please contact me. I have hundreds of nickels I'm looking to invest.

A Gateway into John Madden's Subconscious

If you happened to be watching the Chargers-Chiefs game last Sunday night, you heard one of the best entries in the canon of Madden Subconscious Ramblings to date.

This exchange happened in the 3rd quarter, after coming back from a commercial break by showing clips of workers making french fries in an In-N-Out Burger:

MADDEN - "You know what I'd hate to be, it's a potato."

MICHAELS - "Among other things ... pass to Kennison is incomplete, covered by Jammer. And you'd hate to be a potato because?"

MADDEN - "Well do you see what they do to that potata? I mean they take it, and they take all the skin off it and put it in the thing and, you know, slice it and then they put it in the thing and fry it ... you, you don't have a chance."

MICHAELS - "So in your next life you're not going to come back as a Mr. Potato-Head ..."

MADDEN - "I'm not. No, no, no."

MICHAELS - "Second down and 10."

MADDEN - "I'm gonna come back as a golden retriever."

I Apologize In Advance

I know that tales of your Fantasy Football team are about as interesting to other people as stories of what you dreamed about last night, but this one from last week, I have to share.

This past weekend was the first round of our playoffs. Embarassingly, since my team (The Gem Saloon Cocksuckers) had a horrible season, I was in the Loser's Bracket.

I was facing the horrendously-named Nobody Beats the Wiz. After his quarterback Drew Brees had an incredible game Sunday night (nearly losing his mole in the process) the Cocksuckers were facing an uphill battle. Down 148-94, most of their fans had packed it in, leaving the stands a little early to catch an "According to Jim" rerun. But the team was relentless. Monday night, the Cocksuckers had two players left: Thomas Jones and Marc Bulger.

Jones did his work in the first half, having much of his solid 76-yard, 1-TD effect. He finished with a total of 16 points before Lovie Smith (the Bears coach in real football) inexplicitly took him out of the game to give backup Cedric Benson a majority of the touches. Hell, he even decided to get 3rd-stringer Adrian Peterson a TD. In the end, Jones needed only 4 more yards (an average carry) to break the 80-yard threshold and give him an extra point. This factors in later.

Bulger meanwhile, had a horrible first half and third quarter, giving the Bears a comfortable lead in the real game. It was a blessing in disguise for the Cocksuckers though, since the Rams could do nothing but throw the ball in order to try and get back into the game. As such, Bulger led the Rams down the field for a mostly meaningless TD. Meaningless for the real game because the Bears had a comfortable lead. Meaning for the fake game because, while the Cocksuckers were getting close, Bulger was about to take a seat on the bench for awhile as the Bears were getting the ball back and would be happy with running out as much clock as possible.

Enter Devin Hester.

With him returning the kick for a touchdown (his 2nd return TD of the game and 6th of the season, setting a new record) the Rams went right back out on offense. Bulger headed down the field, eventually getting another TD pass.

His stat totals were up to 298 yards, 2 yards away from the 2-point-bonus threshold, and with 29 completions, one away from another bonus. Thanks to Bulger, the Cocksuckers had closed the gap to 148-144. But time was dwindling and the Bears were about to get the ball.

The Rams held the Bears to a 3-and-out on a few running plays to Cedric Benson, not Thomas Jones. (If Jones had been the one in the backfield, he would have gotten the necessary 4 yards to give him another point.) The Bears punted. The Rams got the ball back with a few minutes to go.

A completion later, Bulger got all of his bonuses. The score was 148-148.

Since NBBTW had the tiebreaker - 4 points to 3 - the Cocksuckers still needed one more point to claim a victory. Ruling out another long touchdown, the point would have to come from 5 more completions by Bulger or another 25 yards.

2 completions later on a 3rd-and-20: Bulger tosses one down the sideline to Torry Holt, who makes a tremendous one-handed catch.

149-148, Cocksuckers.

Another completion for another few yards pushed Bulger to over 350 yards on the night, giving the team another point.

150-148, Cocksuckers.

One more point and it would all over, since the most negative a QB can get on a play (say, a fumble or an interception) is negative 2. If the Cocksuckers got to 151, there would be no way for the team to lose 3 points.

The next play Bulger steps back, and is sacked! Fumble on the play! The Bears recover! Minus 2 points for Bulger. 148-148, with NBBTW getting the tiebreaker. Game over.

But wait! There's a flag on the play! Offsides on the Bears, ball goes back to the Rams. No fumble on the play. The score's still 150-148, Cocksuckers.

One more completion gives Bulger 34 on the day. Since the team gets a point for every 5 completions, one more would have given the team that all-important 3-point advantage.

Time is running out. Bulger, deciding what the hell?, goes for all the marbles and lobs a pass up to his best receiver Torry Holt. A horriblly underthrown pass is picked off by Charles Tillman.

Minus 2 points.

Bears ball. Bulger heads to the sidelines. Bears QB Rex Grossman takes a knee.

Final score: 148-148, NBBTW with the tiebreaker.

Game. Set. Match.

Is this as good as any game that's ever been played in any fantasy league? Maybe. The pros are everything that's happened above. The cons are the fact that it took place in the first round of the Loser's Bracket. But that's a discussion for another time, years down the road, when scholars are studying the breakdown of this. History will be the judge.

More imporantly, where does this rank on the Dork Scale? Well, it's tough to say. Definitely above "Dungeons & Dragons Addict" but below "X-Play fan".

You decide.

Double-shot Tuesday!!!

One article over at McSweeney's, another at CSR. If I didn't have a girlfriend, I'd be rolling around in Internet groupie poon right now.

I've heard of being "put out to stud" before ...

How did the horse who fucked a man to death feel when he found out they were making a movie of the incident?

Giddy-up!

In Dreams

Last night, I had a dream where a nice couple decided to crash in my studio apartment. They seemed nice enough, but right before they tucked themselves into their sleeping bags, they warned by that there was "a serial killer on the loose".

Suddenly scared for my life, I replied with the only analogy that felt appropriate:

"That's like leaving a eunuch to protect the harem!"

I woke up.

Looking back on the statement I made, I know the analogy doesn't quite work in that instance ... but still, that's a hell of an analogy. It's perfect to use in certain situations. Like ...

Well, I'm not exactly sure when. It would have to be some situation where someone in charge had the genius foresight of hiring a security guard with no reason to steal whatever material he was guarding.

(An armless man guarding gloves?)

The point of all of this, of course, is that I'm a genius. Even in my dreams.

(I'm just worried that I heard this line in a movie sometime and now it's finally coming back from its long dark trip in my subconscious to make me feel like a genius. Anyone hear it before? If not, consider the previous entry a copyright.)

From America, the Calendar

Entry from November 27:

The Future of Democracy: Emerging Issues

Obeausity

Around 2015, Americans will realize it would be much easier to change their standard of beauty than to lose weight. From that point on, we will embrace our indulgent lifestyles. Gyms will close, fad binge books will rule the best-seller lists, and singles ads will end with the phrase "Yes fatties".

Eating Out Denver: The Diner Chronicles

During our trip to Denver a few weeks ago, me and my girlfriend – a woman of infinite mystery and treacherous hormone injections – spent a lot of time in diners. (I’d like to think that it had less to do with our general thriftiness, and more to do with feeling the cozy comfort of a home-cooked meal in a non-pretentious setting, but then I’d be lying to myself.) Some of them were good. Some of them weren’t. But all of them served us food.

Here, then, are my grades and critiques of the diners where we, um, dined. In order, from worst to first:

4. Tom’s Diner, 601 E Colfax Ave

One of our last nights in Denver was spent here. I got lemonade that smelled like soap and a Denver omelet with watery eggs and burnt hash browns. My lady got clam chowder that smelled like Lindsay Lohan’s vagina, and tasted like Britney’s, post-fetal delivery.

Also, the waitress gave me some attitude when I asked for straws, and the intrusive bowling video game that sat on our table (about the same size as one of those mini-jukeboxes) was broken and kept on blinking strange symbols at me, probably warning me about the chowder. It might have the most interesting late-night clientele in Denver however, seeing as there were signs all around the diner prominently displaying that between the hours of 10pm and 6am you have to pay as soon as you get your meal.

Grade: D+

3. Pete’s Kitchen, 1962 E. Colfax Ave.

The single night we ate there – lines of hipsters kept us from visiting the joint a second time – I got a Chili-Burger, which was essentially a plate of meat with a side of meat, and my female companion got Chicken Rice soup with Lemon. The meat plate was disappointing, as I expected an actual burger that I could hold, and not have to eat with a knife and fork; holding my food brings out my caveman side. Also, my meal had a side of “hash browns” that were nothing more than burnt slices of potatoes.

Seriously, how do you fuck up hash browns?

Grade: C

2. Denver Diner, 740 W Colfax Ave (visit their MySpace page here)

The Denver Diner stood out to us because of the angelic white light shining through its mostly glass exterior, a glowing beacon of greasy bacon. We found it on our way home from one of our many excursions into Denver’s independent CinemaLand.

(One positive of Denver’s extraordinary film community: Immediate access to pretty much any movie released; think of it as a mini-LA that way. One negative: Having to sit in small theaters with highly pretentious folks who feel the need to comment on what they are seeing with either audible gasps or whispers to their viewing partners. They’re almost as bad as the ones who answer their cell phones. It seems that most of the annoying talking in theaters comes from the two extremes of intelligence – the lower end who don't know any better, and the higher end who don't give a shit.)

I ordered a superb Ham, Turkey & Cheese Melt, while my hormonal partner got the pea soup. Both were good enough.

Grade: B

1. Mama’s Cafe, 2001 E Colfax Ave

“Best diner in the area. Promise. Don't get sucked in by Pete's Diner's hype,” says an anonymous poster on a wikimapia page she made specifically for Mama’s.

(To be clear, I made the anonymous web page creator a women for two reasons: (1) My internal programming forces me to make all anonymous or imaginary personalities females to prevent me from second-guessing my sexual preference; (2) The quote sounds kind of cunty.)

The night we arrived, it was two in the morning and we were just looking for someplace to get food. Our two choices were the aforementioned Pete’s Kitchen, and this odd-looking Mama’s Cafe, housed in a converted IHOP building, complete with the trademark horrendous roof. Pete’s Kitchen was packed, hipsters spilling out into the street, smoking as they waited in line. Kiddy-corner was Mama’s. The signs on the window advertised $2.99 Breakfast Burrito, but their special-of-the-day was no waiting.

We headed inside, sat down immediately, ordered (she got the toast, I got some omelet), got our meal in 5 minutes, scarfed down our meals, paid a miniscule bill, and headed home for some sleep. It was such a pleasant experience that we ended up at Mama’s for two more meals on our week-long trip.

One of those times I made the mistake of ordering the Chicken Parmesan. It wasn’t horrible, just a waste of a meal. But that’s what I get for disobeying the 46th rule of Diner Dining: Never order Italian food. Even the waitress was making funny faces and muttering under her breath when I ordered. Of course that could have been her tourettes: a unique and unexpected bonus (for free too!) that made Mama's Diner our best dining experience in Denver.

Grade: A

A simpler Lohan

Since every third story these days is about Lindsay Lohan, I thought I'd put up these screenshots I stumbled onto today:


It's from a simpler time, back before Ms. Lohan turned into a spoiled cunt, and she was just a child actress, challenging herself with such groundbreaking performances as playing the dual roles of Hallie Parker and Annie James in the Disney's 1998 cult classic, The Parent Trap.

Rewatching it now, the movie takes on a different light. No longer is it just a clever tale about two long-seperated twins hatching a plan to reunite their estranged parents. Instead it comes to signify the internal struggle of a Hollywood actress who has two divergent personalities struggling for control inside of her: a legitimate actress trying to be taken seriously, and a lush party-goer with a shorn vagina.

The innocence of The Parent Trap is lost forever.