Oops, time for a blog about the best record albums of 2009 according to me, Aaron. That year just ended, so I can make this list, cause if I did it on December 30th there would still be the chance some groundbreaking masterpiece could be released on the 31st, and how big of a fool would I look then? Like a TURKEY FOOL. Anyway, numbers time.
1. Taylor Swift, "Fearless" - Now I haven't heard this album, but I carry a strong sense of dread around with me at all times, and it's nice to see that Taylor Swift doesn't. Anxiety afflicts thousands of Americans and maybe some people in lesser countries, and this album probably cures that shit. (Billboard #1, 3,217,000 sold)
2. Susan Boyle, "I Dreamed a Dream" - Now I haven't heard this album, but I'm impressed by how literal the title is. She dreamed a DREAM, idiots. She also dreamed up a bunch of cash, cause this bad boy went triple-platinum in like twelve minutes. And she's so ugly! I'm surprised her vocal chords aren't covered in grease and acne. Maybe they are, in which case this is album is a damned miracle. (Billboard #2, 3,104,000 sold)
3. Michael Jackson, "Number Ones" - Now I haven't heard this album, but I've heard all the songs on it, and they're fun. Also, this album didn't come out in 2009, but the guy who sings the words on it died or something, so it kind of got revitalized. I count that as a re-release. If I was number one, I would buy a plane. (Billboard #3, 2,360,000 sold)
4. Lady Gaga, "The Fame" - Now I haven't heard this album, but if there's one thing I can't identify with, it's fame. I picture fame as a kind of party that never stops where nothing ever goes wrong and nobody ever spirals out of control and washes up in the East River one day because they did a bunch of coke on a boat during a magic show and went into shock because of the drugs and "holy shit where did that woman go she was right there" and BAM fell in the water and drowned. (Billboard #4, 2,240,000 sold)
5. Andrea Bocelli, "My Christmas" - Now I haven't heard this album, but if Andrea Bocelli has the iron johnson to claim that this year Christmas was HERS, then by all means, she can have it. (Billboard #5, 2,210,000 sold)
6. Various Artists, Mostly Miley Cyrus, "Hannah Montana: The Movie" - Now I haven't seen this movie, but the way Miley Cyrus changes into Hannah Montana like Clark Kent into Superman appeals to my sense of mystery. I really feel for her struggle to maintain this double life where she has to pretend to be someone she isn't. It's like when an actor has to do it as his job. (Billboard #6, 1,820,000 sold)
7. Black-Eyed Peas, "The E.N.D." - Now I haven't heard this album, but those Peas spell out just about everything they say, and that's good for the stupid youth of today. They're taking back the English language from the bumbling retards who can't stop running into each other while they TXT MSGS to each other about how bad this economy is treating them. Get over it! Thank you, B.L.A.C.K. E.Y.E.D. peas for reminding us that spelling bees are hot, sticky love orgies. (Billboard #7, 1,790,000 sold)
8. Eminem, "Relapse" - Now I haven't heard this album, but I'm glad Em's back on drugs. If we can just get him to get rid of that stupid daughter of his, maybe we can get him back to teetering on the edge of psychosis where he makes his best pop culture references. (Billboard #8, 1,740,000)
9. Jay-Z, "The Blueprint 3" - I've heard this album. I like it. (Billboard #9, 1,152,000)
10. Kings of Leon, "Only By the Night" - Now I haven't heard this album, but it sounds like it's about Batman. Batman's definitely the best superhero. Did you guys see those movies? Man, they were really good. (Billboard #10, 1,140,000)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Game Show Titling Formats: A Study
Knowing there's a game show out there called "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?" led me to look at how networks now seem to want the exact premise of game shows to be spelled out in their titles, interminable verbage be damned. Not that old gameshow titles are particularly ingenius. Let's make with the comparing!
Classic Gameshows Retitled for a Modern Audience
Jeopardy! - We Say the Answer, You Say the Question!
$10,000 Pyramid - Make 'Em Say That Word!
The Price is Right - How Much Does It Cost?
Wheel of Fortune - Spin the Pretty Wheel, Letter Guessy!
Family Feud - Xtreme Surveyz
Modern Gameshows Retitled for a Classic Audience
Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader? - Elementary
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? - Take! Your! Time!
Deal or No Deal - Number Zowie!
Don't Forget the Lyrics! - Bango Wango
My Dad is Better Than Your Dad - The Cold War
Classic Gameshows Retitled for a Modern Audience
Jeopardy! - We Say the Answer, You Say the Question!
$10,000 Pyramid - Make 'Em Say That Word!
The Price is Right - How Much Does It Cost?
Wheel of Fortune - Spin the Pretty Wheel, Letter Guessy!
Family Feud - Xtreme Surveyz
Modern Gameshows Retitled for a Classic Audience
Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader? - Elementary
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? - Take! Your! Time!
Deal or No Deal - Number Zowie!
Don't Forget the Lyrics! - Bango Wango
My Dad is Better Than Your Dad - The Cold War
Thursday, September 10, 2009
And Lo, The Beast Shall Not Take Affirmative for an Answer
As I answered the office phone this morning I made the mistake of speaking into it. Without forethought, I uttered that age-old incantation known even to the darkest spirits as anathema, a phrase so full of power and black magick-with-a-k that reciting it even once can push its speaker to the edge of madness.
"Dr. Jackson's office," I said.
O, what a fool was I! If current knowledge were mine then I would sooner have cut out my tongue than repeat that vile sentence fragment. For I had invited in a harsh presence, a presence which enters through the ears and sets up tents of human skin within the mind. Wasting no time, the beast made its intentions known.
"Hi, this is John from Discover," crawled the voice. "I'd like to send some literature about our Merchant program to your business address."
Literature! Poppycock! The deceit apparent flows like blood from fallen soldiers. But alas, I was blind to it. Perhaps my ignorance was born of an overtrust of humanity. Perhaps it was born of curiosity toward the Discover-John's intentions. It also could've been the iced white mocha I was drinking. It was really good. But regardless! My ignorance drew its sword and cowardly slew my logic before it could even turn around. (My logic had been getting something out of the refrigerator.) Instead of rapidly hanging up, cutting the beast's seduction short, and returning to the welcoming bosom of my white mocha, I allowed Discover-John to continue.
"Okay," I said.
"All right, sir. And who am I speaking with?"
When Satan walks the earth at night, does one offer him an introduction and a friendly handshake? Not if one hopes to return home with as many souls as when he left!
"Aaron."
Minus one soul!
"And your last name, too, please."
"Burdette."
Minus two souls! Would I only gain self control, I might not be down more souls than I even own! But the greedy thing remained unsatiated. Discover-John let forth a series of rapid noises practiced for centuries beyond millennia for the purpose of mesmerizing all within earshot, and my feeble mind could not hope to overcome the bedazzlement. Especially not with that mocha just out of reach.
"Something something our loyal customers... something something to show our appreciation... something something no obligation... something something cancel any time for a full refund."
"Um."
"Okay, great. We'll send this right out to you. I just need to confirm your position in the company and your mailing address."
The creature's word shovel buried my cognition six feet beneath the fields of my reasoning. Yet no raincloud worries breezed through my mind sky. I was under no obligation!
"I'm an assistant."
"Okay, Mr. Burdette, so you're a general employee?"
A synapse of thought fired in my brain!
"Not technically, no. I'm just..."
"We list all general employees as administrators. So I'll just put down that you're an administrator."
Reality warped around me, rending me from this plane and hurling me into a fresh one. Though all within me screamed against it, I knew the truth: I was now an administrator. The power of the creature's words had transformed me! I knew not what my new title held, but I sat with bated breath and forced agreement, foreseeing myself doing some kind of network diagnostic .
"All right," was all I could muster.
Discover-John spake the mailing address. While I am not so naive as to question his ability to look up a simple business address in a directory, a sharp pain in my spinal column told me he'd ripped it from my thoughts. What heroes could I call on to save me from this invasion? None, thought I, for all who tried would be turned into rabbits. The faux conversation took a sudden turn.
"Okay, Mr. Burdette, I have a script I need to read to you. I just need a simple yes or no to each of the following questions. This will be recorded."
Recorded? No! Not a recording of spoken words, but rather a recording of my very lifeforce, drained from me by this warlock. Were not two of my souls enough? The greed emitted by this ravenous monster became tangible and formed a separate, living entity altogether. I heard them high five.
"Um, okay," I puked.
"Just remember, when I ask you your position in the company, you say 'administrator.'"
As though I could forget reality's shift.
"Got it."
"Okay, we're recording. Sir, can you please state your name?"
Don't do it! Fight back!
"Aaron Burdette."
Not like that, you fool!
"And your position in the company?"
Here's where I'll get him, thought I. I shall thwart him by sheer force of will!
"Administrator."
Damn it! If only I could've reached my mocha! But the phone cord taunted me with its miniscule length. A length I seem to recall being greater before this call from Cthulu...
"And super fast talking you can't understand. Is this correct?"
His words were incomprehensible, and yet I followed him like the God King of Blood Mountain.
"Yes."
"And some more super fast talking you can't understand. Is this correct?"
I felt Death's grip tighten. All around me my fears and failures rose as an indomitable army. I saw them raise their firearms and bayonets, coming ever closer. One guy in the back was setting landmines, just to be a jerk. I closed my eyes and readied my predetermined answer. In unison, the ghostly army asked if I was prepared to die.
"Yep."
"I'm sorry, is that a yes?"
The army vanished, except for that landmine guy. He stepped on his own trap and exploded. What did the beast mean, "is that a yes?" Throughout the history of English and most other languages, "Yep" has been an informal replacement for "Yes."
"Uh, yeah."
"I'm sorry, sir, I need you to say 'yes.'"
The remains of his spell shattered. There were indeed rules to this creature's mindgame! Discover-John only responded to hyper-literalism! My wits returned to me, and I subtly reversed the tables.
"Well, okay. Yes."
"And you authorize Discover to send you these materials, at which point you will be begin a 30-day free trial?"
Screw you, demon.
"Affirmative."
"Is that a yes?"
"Affirmative."
"Sir, I need you to say 'yes.'"
"Okay."
I said nothing more, listening as the now-pitiful, wholly human voice attempted to regain its ground.
"Are you going to say 'yes?'"
"Affirmative."
"Sir, I can't continue unless you say 'yes.'"
"Yes."
"Okay. Upon completion of your 30-day trial you will be charged monthly to remain a member. You must cancel before the end of the trial if you wish to receive a refund. Do you understand?"
Finally his motive became clear! After all his hypnosis, all his mind control, he wanted nothing more than money. The devil as a common thief. For a moment mercy crossed my face, but it was quickly driven away when I realized I could reach my mocha again.
"Duh."
"Sir, please say 'yes' or 'no.'"
"No."
"What?"
"I won't say yes or no. You just talked really fast to try and trick me, and now you're trying to get me to agree to a free trial of something I don't understand or want. Pretty shady, dude."
"Sir, are you saying 'no?'"
"Hell yes I'm saying no. That clear enough for you? NO. DON'T KEEP TALKING."
He could not hide his contempt for me, but I paid it no mind. I had overcome him. He reeled from me, returning to the chasm he called "Home Sweet Bottomless Pit." In what trial had I been enrolling? I thought it best if I never knew. Most likely it would have been torture or Columbia House, and the thought made me shiver despite myself. The beast grumbled and growled on the other end, knowing he would have to do this all over again in a moment. He feigned politeness.
"Have a nice day."
"No."
But I did anyway.
"Dr. Jackson's office," I said.
O, what a fool was I! If current knowledge were mine then I would sooner have cut out my tongue than repeat that vile sentence fragment. For I had invited in a harsh presence, a presence which enters through the ears and sets up tents of human skin within the mind. Wasting no time, the beast made its intentions known.
"Hi, this is John from Discover," crawled the voice. "I'd like to send some literature about our Merchant program to your business address."
Literature! Poppycock! The deceit apparent flows like blood from fallen soldiers. But alas, I was blind to it. Perhaps my ignorance was born of an overtrust of humanity. Perhaps it was born of curiosity toward the Discover-John's intentions. It also could've been the iced white mocha I was drinking. It was really good. But regardless! My ignorance drew its sword and cowardly slew my logic before it could even turn around. (My logic had been getting something out of the refrigerator.) Instead of rapidly hanging up, cutting the beast's seduction short, and returning to the welcoming bosom of my white mocha, I allowed Discover-John to continue.
"Okay," I said.
"All right, sir. And who am I speaking with?"
When Satan walks the earth at night, does one offer him an introduction and a friendly handshake? Not if one hopes to return home with as many souls as when he left!
"Aaron."
Minus one soul!
"And your last name, too, please."
"Burdette."
Minus two souls! Would I only gain self control, I might not be down more souls than I even own! But the greedy thing remained unsatiated. Discover-John let forth a series of rapid noises practiced for centuries beyond millennia for the purpose of mesmerizing all within earshot, and my feeble mind could not hope to overcome the bedazzlement. Especially not with that mocha just out of reach.
"Something something our loyal customers... something something to show our appreciation... something something no obligation... something something cancel any time for a full refund."
"Um."
"Okay, great. We'll send this right out to you. I just need to confirm your position in the company and your mailing address."
The creature's word shovel buried my cognition six feet beneath the fields of my reasoning. Yet no raincloud worries breezed through my mind sky. I was under no obligation!
"I'm an assistant."
"Okay, Mr. Burdette, so you're a general employee?"
A synapse of thought fired in my brain!
"Not technically, no. I'm just..."
"We list all general employees as administrators. So I'll just put down that you're an administrator."
Reality warped around me, rending me from this plane and hurling me into a fresh one. Though all within me screamed against it, I knew the truth: I was now an administrator. The power of the creature's words had transformed me! I knew not what my new title held, but I sat with bated breath and forced agreement, foreseeing myself doing some kind of network diagnostic .
"All right," was all I could muster.
Discover-John spake the mailing address. While I am not so naive as to question his ability to look up a simple business address in a directory, a sharp pain in my spinal column told me he'd ripped it from my thoughts. What heroes could I call on to save me from this invasion? None, thought I, for all who tried would be turned into rabbits. The faux conversation took a sudden turn.
"Okay, Mr. Burdette, I have a script I need to read to you. I just need a simple yes or no to each of the following questions. This will be recorded."
Recorded? No! Not a recording of spoken words, but rather a recording of my very lifeforce, drained from me by this warlock. Were not two of my souls enough? The greed emitted by this ravenous monster became tangible and formed a separate, living entity altogether. I heard them high five.
"Um, okay," I puked.
"Just remember, when I ask you your position in the company, you say 'administrator.'"
As though I could forget reality's shift.
"Got it."
"Okay, we're recording. Sir, can you please state your name?"
Don't do it! Fight back!
"Aaron Burdette."
Not like that, you fool!
"And your position in the company?"
Here's where I'll get him, thought I. I shall thwart him by sheer force of will!
"Administrator."
Damn it! If only I could've reached my mocha! But the phone cord taunted me with its miniscule length. A length I seem to recall being greater before this call from Cthulu...
"And super fast talking you can't understand. Is this correct?"
His words were incomprehensible, and yet I followed him like the God King of Blood Mountain.
"Yes."
"And some more super fast talking you can't understand. Is this correct?"
I felt Death's grip tighten. All around me my fears and failures rose as an indomitable army. I saw them raise their firearms and bayonets, coming ever closer. One guy in the back was setting landmines, just to be a jerk. I closed my eyes and readied my predetermined answer. In unison, the ghostly army asked if I was prepared to die.
"Yep."
"I'm sorry, is that a yes?"
The army vanished, except for that landmine guy. He stepped on his own trap and exploded. What did the beast mean, "is that a yes?" Throughout the history of English and most other languages, "Yep" has been an informal replacement for "Yes."
"Uh, yeah."
"I'm sorry, sir, I need you to say 'yes.'"
The remains of his spell shattered. There were indeed rules to this creature's mindgame! Discover-John only responded to hyper-literalism! My wits returned to me, and I subtly reversed the tables.
"Well, okay. Yes."
"And you authorize Discover to send you these materials, at which point you will be begin a 30-day free trial?"
Screw you, demon.
"Affirmative."
"Is that a yes?"
"Affirmative."
"Sir, I need you to say 'yes.'"
"Okay."
I said nothing more, listening as the now-pitiful, wholly human voice attempted to regain its ground.
"Are you going to say 'yes?'"
"Affirmative."
"Sir, I can't continue unless you say 'yes.'"
"Yes."
"Okay. Upon completion of your 30-day trial you will be charged monthly to remain a member. You must cancel before the end of the trial if you wish to receive a refund. Do you understand?"
Finally his motive became clear! After all his hypnosis, all his mind control, he wanted nothing more than money. The devil as a common thief. For a moment mercy crossed my face, but it was quickly driven away when I realized I could reach my mocha again.
"Duh."
"Sir, please say 'yes' or 'no.'"
"No."
"What?"
"I won't say yes or no. You just talked really fast to try and trick me, and now you're trying to get me to agree to a free trial of something I don't understand or want. Pretty shady, dude."
"Sir, are you saying 'no?'"
"Hell yes I'm saying no. That clear enough for you? NO. DON'T KEEP TALKING."
He could not hide his contempt for me, but I paid it no mind. I had overcome him. He reeled from me, returning to the chasm he called "Home Sweet Bottomless Pit." In what trial had I been enrolling? I thought it best if I never knew. Most likely it would have been torture or Columbia House, and the thought made me shiver despite myself. The beast grumbled and growled on the other end, knowing he would have to do this all over again in a moment. He feigned politeness.
"Have a nice day."
"No."
But I did anyway.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Drunk Driver, the Dumb Cop, & the Me
Normally I use this "blog" as a means of making fun of something I saw in the news, had read to me from the news, or just made up completely. Not this time. I thought I'd tell everybody a 100 percent true story about a little incident I experienced today. An incident I like to call "Something Gate."
Something Gate started as all my Gates do. I was standing in the street when I was almost hit by a van. Totally normal! I spend two hours of every workday as a crossing guard at a school in Manhattan (where people are apparently allowed to opt out of brakes for their cars) so I'm used to diving wildly from in front of burning vehicles. The driver of the van I speak of didn't follow the usual pattern of cursing and penal code quoting the others do, though. He instead came careening around a corner, slamming on his brakes and stopping about six inches shy of fat green dumpster that would've owned his world up high and forever.
After collecting his face from the windshield, he immediately turned toward me as I stood in the street, wearing a crossing guard vest, holding a stop sign, and gently helping an old lady, a toddler, and a Shih Tsu across the street. Okay, replace the mentioned street-crossers with one middle schooler each. It's not as precious, but it's still serious business, damn it.
The kids crossed the street, but I still stood in the middle of it, the van bearing down on me. As a disillusioned youth who still believes cars stop for pedestrians, stop signs, and pedestrians with stop signs, I didn't do that thing where I leap over the car and shoot my uzi at it in slow motion. Instead, I stared at the van and tried in vain to stop my fear from rising exponentially. I didn't shit myself! Mission accomplished.
I did, however, literally dive out of the way of the van. Not literally like "I literally jumped out of my skin." Literally like "Your girlfriend is literally very fat." As I moved through the air, I slammed my palm down on the hood of the van and yelled something about a hole the driver may have found to his liking. The butthole. And something he might find there to eat. Are we on the same page? Okay, I yelled "Eat butthole shits!" and I meant it.
Anyway, the driver stopped the van and asked the most logical question. "What did I do wrong?" his mouth said. His brain was on drugs. Painkillers, actually. We had a nice long talk about it, during which I discovered he had a vast amount of psoriasis and rheumatoid arthritis and needs meds to keep that in check. Meds that make him incapable of driving, making sound decisions, or staying awake while telling me all this.
While I talked him partially off the road and lulled him to sleep with my listening skills, my co-worker called 911 and informed them of a person driving under the influence. The police dispatcher decided this situation was not important, labeled it "reckless driving," (a term I've always thought sounded like very good, nay, perfect driving), and we had the pleasure of waiting twenty minutes on a police officer to show up.
In the meantime, I had to sneakily remove the driver's keys and put the van in park while he slept with his foot on the brake. My boss ran over to the nearby Stuyvesant Square Park and asked a Parks Officer to come over and survey the situation, which he did. He even brought his McDonald's with him, but didn't offer to share it with me. The nerve of some very helpful people! Despite a snazzy green uniform and a go-getter attitude, the Parks Officer was out of his jurisdiction since the van was not parked on a squirrel. He did help us out, though, by calling 911 again and telling them this was a serious matter, and if someone didn't get down here right now he would eat a whole thing of fries. Part of that is a lie. The fries part.
As we stand around waiting on the police to police things, a traffic officer pulls up next to us. I flag him down (he clearly wasn't on his way to help us) and tell him about the situation. I shall print the word-for-word, no jokes conversation here directly.
"Hi, we've got a little problem with this driver over here," I said. "He's hopped up on painkillers and is driving really dangerously. He almost ran me and some kids over, and he doesn't seem to really know where he is. I've been waiting here for almost twenty minutes since we called 911, and no one's showing up."
"Okay, I need him to move his van," said the officer. "He can't park there."
"I know, but he's on painkillers and driving really erratically. He almost crashed into that dumpster back there."
"That's fine, sir, but you don't know he's on painkillers."
"Well, he told me he was on painkillers."
"But you don't know that. I need you to tell him to move his car to that parking spot up the street."
"What? You want me to give the man his keys back, and tell him to drive somewhere?"
"Yes, sir."
"The man who just almost wrecked into me and some children?"
"Just until the other officers arrive."
"Wait, you're not gonna help?"
"This isn't my division. Just tell him to move the van."
Aaaaaand scene. He drove off. Didn't call anything in, didn't stop to ask questions. I'm standing there telling a genuine police officer that we have a driver who is under the influence and almost hurt people, and his advice is to give the man his keys back. I'm going to assume, for sanity and safety's sake, that this officer was on a slow-moving mission of utmost importance, involving saving a princess from a diabolical regime of brain pirates, and his entire focus was on stopping the pirates from turning all of humanity into unpaid interns.
So, the story eventually wrapped up nicely. Some very good cops who understand their jobs showed up and talked to the man, instantly recognizing that he was unfit to drive. They didn't have any charges against him since they didn't see any of the mayhem, but they did put him on an ambulance and escort him to a hospital. In the end, I guess this story is really about friendship or something. The friendship forged in the heat of sleeping off your pain pills.
Something Gate started as all my Gates do. I was standing in the street when I was almost hit by a van. Totally normal! I spend two hours of every workday as a crossing guard at a school in Manhattan (where people are apparently allowed to opt out of brakes for their cars) so I'm used to diving wildly from in front of burning vehicles. The driver of the van I speak of didn't follow the usual pattern of cursing and penal code quoting the others do, though. He instead came careening around a corner, slamming on his brakes and stopping about six inches shy of fat green dumpster that would've owned his world up high and forever.
After collecting his face from the windshield, he immediately turned toward me as I stood in the street, wearing a crossing guard vest, holding a stop sign, and gently helping an old lady, a toddler, and a Shih Tsu across the street. Okay, replace the mentioned street-crossers with one middle schooler each. It's not as precious, but it's still serious business, damn it.
The kids crossed the street, but I still stood in the middle of it, the van bearing down on me. As a disillusioned youth who still believes cars stop for pedestrians, stop signs, and pedestrians with stop signs, I didn't do that thing where I leap over the car and shoot my uzi at it in slow motion. Instead, I stared at the van and tried in vain to stop my fear from rising exponentially. I didn't shit myself! Mission accomplished.
I did, however, literally dive out of the way of the van. Not literally like "I literally jumped out of my skin." Literally like "Your girlfriend is literally very fat." As I moved through the air, I slammed my palm down on the hood of the van and yelled something about a hole the driver may have found to his liking. The butthole. And something he might find there to eat. Are we on the same page? Okay, I yelled "Eat butthole shits!" and I meant it.
Anyway, the driver stopped the van and asked the most logical question. "What did I do wrong?" his mouth said. His brain was on drugs. Painkillers, actually. We had a nice long talk about it, during which I discovered he had a vast amount of psoriasis and rheumatoid arthritis and needs meds to keep that in check. Meds that make him incapable of driving, making sound decisions, or staying awake while telling me all this.
While I talked him partially off the road and lulled him to sleep with my listening skills, my co-worker called 911 and informed them of a person driving under the influence. The police dispatcher decided this situation was not important, labeled it "reckless driving," (a term I've always thought sounded like very good, nay, perfect driving), and we had the pleasure of waiting twenty minutes on a police officer to show up.
In the meantime, I had to sneakily remove the driver's keys and put the van in park while he slept with his foot on the brake. My boss ran over to the nearby Stuyvesant Square Park and asked a Parks Officer to come over and survey the situation, which he did. He even brought his McDonald's with him, but didn't offer to share it with me. The nerve of some very helpful people! Despite a snazzy green uniform and a go-getter attitude, the Parks Officer was out of his jurisdiction since the van was not parked on a squirrel. He did help us out, though, by calling 911 again and telling them this was a serious matter, and if someone didn't get down here right now he would eat a whole thing of fries. Part of that is a lie. The fries part.
As we stand around waiting on the police to police things, a traffic officer pulls up next to us. I flag him down (he clearly wasn't on his way to help us) and tell him about the situation. I shall print the word-for-word, no jokes conversation here directly.
"Hi, we've got a little problem with this driver over here," I said. "He's hopped up on painkillers and is driving really dangerously. He almost ran me and some kids over, and he doesn't seem to really know where he is. I've been waiting here for almost twenty minutes since we called 911, and no one's showing up."
"Okay, I need him to move his van," said the officer. "He can't park there."
"I know, but he's on painkillers and driving really erratically. He almost crashed into that dumpster back there."
"That's fine, sir, but you don't know he's on painkillers."
"Well, he told me he was on painkillers."
"But you don't know that. I need you to tell him to move his car to that parking spot up the street."
"What? You want me to give the man his keys back, and tell him to drive somewhere?"
"Yes, sir."
"The man who just almost wrecked into me and some children?"
"Just until the other officers arrive."
"Wait, you're not gonna help?"
"This isn't my division. Just tell him to move the van."
Aaaaaand scene. He drove off. Didn't call anything in, didn't stop to ask questions. I'm standing there telling a genuine police officer that we have a driver who is under the influence and almost hurt people, and his advice is to give the man his keys back. I'm going to assume, for sanity and safety's sake, that this officer was on a slow-moving mission of utmost importance, involving saving a princess from a diabolical regime of brain pirates, and his entire focus was on stopping the pirates from turning all of humanity into unpaid interns.
So, the story eventually wrapped up nicely. Some very good cops who understand their jobs showed up and talked to the man, instantly recognizing that he was unfit to drive. They didn't have any charges against him since they didn't see any of the mayhem, but they did put him on an ambulance and escort him to a hospital. In the end, I guess this story is really about friendship or something. The friendship forged in the heat of sleeping off your pain pills.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Stop Telling Me To Wear Clothes
This is such a big, wide world. I love it for both of those reasons, as well as some others. The food. That's another one. Trust me when I say food is everywhere, because I've been to everywhere. They have far more food than you can imagine, but only slightly more than you can eat. I'm full and ready to burst right now as this plane takes off, whisking me skyward for a zero-G flight that will end with me eating pancakes right out of the air. I admit I lead a pretty charmed life. Most people have to eat pancakes off plates that don't even hover toward their faces. But please, I'm writing this to beg people to realize that it's not all glitz and glamour I'm shoving down my throat. There's pain in there, too, and it hurts. I'm not as adored as you might expect. Some decisions I've made have not been popular, but they were necessary, and I'm here today to beg you people to stop telling me to wear clothes.
How often do you stop and admire the world you live in? I bet it's never. I bet you don't even know you live in it. Forgive my assumption, but I've got some experience here. Right now you're probably sitting there at least partially clothed and staring at a computer screen. How long did that outfit take you to pick out? Two days? Three?! And that's not even the worst of it. There's time spent dressing and shopping and caring about the clothes you wear, when instead you could be jumping out of high things or into low things! It is impossible to truly appreciate the earth and all its gentle creatures if you're too busy wearing their fluffs or whatever you call them.
Who here was born clothed? Unless your biography reads like a tall tale, you weren't. That was a rhetorical question. While all of you were mimicking your parents and spending what adds up to years getting dressed, I was off inheriting the lottery and bungee skiing. I didn't even bother learning the terms for those things you put on. I just made up my own based on the syllables that appeared in my head the first time I saw someone wearing a given item. Living au naturale affords me time to gallivant and traipse and jaunt, so please don't ask me to give up those three different things.
Just the other day after landing a biplane on the streets of Prague, I tried to board a train back to my hotel where I had stored my other biplane, which I was going to land on top of the other one. I was met with nothing but scorn from the passengers on the train, though, as I squeezed into the tightly packed car. "Bez kalhot! Bez kalhot!" they yelled, pointing at my readily mentionables and passing out. I don't see any Czechs landing biplanes on biplanes! If they had actually accomplished something in their lives, I'd value their opinions, but as it turns out, their country can't even stay unified for more than ten minutes. And who are some of the most well-dressed Czechs in the world? The Czech Republic ones, of course! I think you see what I'm driving at.
Even though I find your particular method of dressing and undressing appalling and wasteful, I don't walk up to you and ask you to remove your spelchuks or zimdots. Thus, I would very much appreciate it if you'd stop asking me to put on some urblims. Do unto others, you know. So, if this can be accomplished and my life can maintain its current levels of love, gluttony, and awe-inspiring wonder, maybe I will try harder to keep my genitals off your shoulder.
How often do you stop and admire the world you live in? I bet it's never. I bet you don't even know you live in it. Forgive my assumption, but I've got some experience here. Right now you're probably sitting there at least partially clothed and staring at a computer screen. How long did that outfit take you to pick out? Two days? Three?! And that's not even the worst of it. There's time spent dressing and shopping and caring about the clothes you wear, when instead you could be jumping out of high things or into low things! It is impossible to truly appreciate the earth and all its gentle creatures if you're too busy wearing their fluffs or whatever you call them.
Who here was born clothed? Unless your biography reads like a tall tale, you weren't. That was a rhetorical question. While all of you were mimicking your parents and spending what adds up to years getting dressed, I was off inheriting the lottery and bungee skiing. I didn't even bother learning the terms for those things you put on. I just made up my own based on the syllables that appeared in my head the first time I saw someone wearing a given item. Living au naturale affords me time to gallivant and traipse and jaunt, so please don't ask me to give up those three different things.
Just the other day after landing a biplane on the streets of Prague, I tried to board a train back to my hotel where I had stored my other biplane, which I was going to land on top of the other one. I was met with nothing but scorn from the passengers on the train, though, as I squeezed into the tightly packed car. "Bez kalhot! Bez kalhot!" they yelled, pointing at my readily mentionables and passing out. I don't see any Czechs landing biplanes on biplanes! If they had actually accomplished something in their lives, I'd value their opinions, but as it turns out, their country can't even stay unified for more than ten minutes. And who are some of the most well-dressed Czechs in the world? The Czech Republic ones, of course! I think you see what I'm driving at.
Even though I find your particular method of dressing and undressing appalling and wasteful, I don't walk up to you and ask you to remove your spelchuks or zimdots. Thus, I would very much appreciate it if you'd stop asking me to put on some urblims. Do unto others, you know. So, if this can be accomplished and my life can maintain its current levels of love, gluttony, and awe-inspiring wonder, maybe I will try harder to keep my genitals off your shoulder.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Selections from Michael Crichton's Unfinished Autobiography
The Piffle is proud to exclusively present these excerpts from Michael Crichton's unfinished and untitled autobiography. Oh, the things we do for you guys.
With the shades drawn, the bedroom lost the comfort of day. Pale moonbeams fought to enter, but the level of reflection offered by the blinds redirected the light, such that it went back through the window, only to enter the invisible spectrum almost immediately. The human eye could not detect this submicroscopic shift in frequency, and science had not yet found any biological eye capable of perceiving such tiny changes. A robot probably could, but this was 1942 and there weren’t any around yet.
The rattle of the radiator drowned the sound of the roughly 12.4 mile-per-hour wind. It might’ve troubled the radiator’s owners to know that the clanging was irregular, possibly caused by a disruption of the flow of steam within the pipes, or by air pockets caught within the steam itself, resulting in improper airflow. In this case, however, the owners’ worries about the sounds of the radiator did not overshadow their need for warmth, because it was January in Chicago, and the mercury thermometers indicated 12 degrees Fahrenheit, -11 degrees Celsius.
Two people were having sex. They were Frank and Betty Crichton, and they were conceiving me.
College crept up on me with little warning, as one might expect after the high school years I spent in utmost popularity. In the summer of 1960, Lauren and I prepared to part ways after three years of intelligent conversation and barely-controlled passion. Her academics had led her to Stanford, while I still held out hope for acceptance to Harvard. On our final weekend together, we picnicked under an apple tree, one of a thousand trees in the Irving Corporation’s sprawling orchard.
“Lauren,” I said, running a hand through her golden hair, “what type of pesticide do you suppose they use in this orchard?”
She smiled coyly. “Everyone uses DDT, Michael,” she said. We kissed.
“Do they not realize what they’re doing?” I shouted. “DDT researchers have shown that the effects of the pesticide can include cancer! There are documented cases of other animals contracting disease from DDT, as well.”
Lauren began unbuttoning her shirt. “Yes, but the research also has not yet conclusively shown that DDT is the root cause. Thus far, the negative effects of the pesticide do not seem to outweigh the positive.”
“Who are we to play God?” I demanded.
It was too much. We made love for hours as the DDT spread around us. After a time, our eardrums picked up the sound of a gasoline-powered engine.
“What could that be?” Lauren asked. “There are no roads in the orchard.”
Then we saw it. A Jeep hurtled through the rows of trees, Irving Corporation logo emblazoned on its passenger door. There was no time to think. We picked up our clothes and ran. Caught up in the moment, I didn’t notice when Lauren tripped and fell, though now I know she must have. When I looked back, the Jeep had turned around, hauling Lauren back to the main compound, her screams passing through the leaves like so much wind in the orchard.
How could they have known we’d been discussing DDT? How could they have known I was correct about DDT having negative effects on the surrounding ecosystem, when it was still two years before Silent Spring announced the stunning effects of the pesticide? There seemed to be no way they could’ve overheard our conversation without super hearing or an invisibility cloak or mechanical apples. Then it dawned on me.
Tiny microphones.
After delivering the incriminating documents to news outlets around the world, my life gradually returned to normal. The Irving Corporation crumbled, its ties to the Japanese revealed. In the two weeks since Lauren’s kidnapping I’d taken down one of the major technological evils in the world, but I’d also been forced to watch the life vanish from my lover’s eyes as I held her close. Thankfully, this was one of the prerequisites for acceptance to Harvard.
After the completion of Dinosaur Island (I refuse to call it by the title the publisher chose), my career saw a massive upswing. I’d had bestsellers before, but after copious fees and living expenses, I’d had to churn out another book about new technology or dangerously incautious scientists as fast as possible, just to stay afloat. Not so with this novel. I don’t know why I’d never thought about putting dinosaurs in a book before, but that did it. Sales were through the roof, I had time to enjoy life, and, suddenly, Steven Spielberg took notice of me.
I had long admired Steven. We shared a passion for film, science, and aliens. We both knew that it was not our place to meddle in the affairs of nature, because nature will always win against everything but a bomb. I was ecstatic to be working with someone so acutely aware of the process by which multiple photographed images linked via a filmstrip and displayed quickly in succession over a light projector congeal to form one artistic medium.
The movie exploded, though not in the literal sense of a sudden increase in the volume of energy in a given atmosphere, but rather in the cultural popularity sense. With proof positive of my novels’ abilities to translate to the screen, I received multiple offers from studios wishing to adapt stories such as Underwater Ball and Monkey Jungle. I’d shown that with a little research, a little English, and a whole lot of characters, I could make the money I needed to show the world the one thing it most needed to see.
Everybody believed eugenics, and that wasn’t real.
We hope you have enjoyed this exclusive view into the mind of a wonderful writer who will be sorely missed. While we may not have another Jurassic Park to look forward to, we can always just read it again.
Prologue
With the shades drawn, the bedroom lost the comfort of day. Pale moonbeams fought to enter, but the level of reflection offered by the blinds redirected the light, such that it went back through the window, only to enter the invisible spectrum almost immediately. The human eye could not detect this submicroscopic shift in frequency, and science had not yet found any biological eye capable of perceiving such tiny changes. A robot probably could, but this was 1942 and there weren’t any around yet.
The rattle of the radiator drowned the sound of the roughly 12.4 mile-per-hour wind. It might’ve troubled the radiator’s owners to know that the clanging was irregular, possibly caused by a disruption of the flow of steam within the pipes, or by air pockets caught within the steam itself, resulting in improper airflow. In this case, however, the owners’ worries about the sounds of the radiator did not overshadow their need for warmth, because it was January in Chicago, and the mercury thermometers indicated 12 degrees Fahrenheit, -11 degrees Celsius.
Two people were having sex. They were Frank and Betty Crichton, and they were conceiving me.
Chapter 23: Approaching College
College crept up on me with little warning, as one might expect after the high school years I spent in utmost popularity. In the summer of 1960, Lauren and I prepared to part ways after three years of intelligent conversation and barely-controlled passion. Her academics had led her to Stanford, while I still held out hope for acceptance to Harvard. On our final weekend together, we picnicked under an apple tree, one of a thousand trees in the Irving Corporation’s sprawling orchard.
“Lauren,” I said, running a hand through her golden hair, “what type of pesticide do you suppose they use in this orchard?”
She smiled coyly. “Everyone uses DDT, Michael,” she said. We kissed.
“Do they not realize what they’re doing?” I shouted. “DDT researchers have shown that the effects of the pesticide can include cancer! There are documented cases of other animals contracting disease from DDT, as well.”
Lauren began unbuttoning her shirt. “Yes, but the research also has not yet conclusively shown that DDT is the root cause. Thus far, the negative effects of the pesticide do not seem to outweigh the positive.”
“Who are we to play God?” I demanded.
It was too much. We made love for hours as the DDT spread around us. After a time, our eardrums picked up the sound of a gasoline-powered engine.
“What could that be?” Lauren asked. “There are no roads in the orchard.”
Then we saw it. A Jeep hurtled through the rows of trees, Irving Corporation logo emblazoned on its passenger door. There was no time to think. We picked up our clothes and ran. Caught up in the moment, I didn’t notice when Lauren tripped and fell, though now I know she must have. When I looked back, the Jeep had turned around, hauling Lauren back to the main compound, her screams passing through the leaves like so much wind in the orchard.
How could they have known we’d been discussing DDT? How could they have known I was correct about DDT having negative effects on the surrounding ecosystem, when it was still two years before Silent Spring announced the stunning effects of the pesticide? There seemed to be no way they could’ve overheard our conversation without super hearing or an invisibility cloak or mechanical apples. Then it dawned on me.
Tiny microphones.
Chapter 47: College
After delivering the incriminating documents to news outlets around the world, my life gradually returned to normal. The Irving Corporation crumbled, its ties to the Japanese revealed. In the two weeks since Lauren’s kidnapping I’d taken down one of the major technological evils in the world, but I’d also been forced to watch the life vanish from my lover’s eyes as I held her close. Thankfully, this was one of the prerequisites for acceptance to Harvard.
Chapter 82: Blockbuster
After the completion of Dinosaur Island (I refuse to call it by the title the publisher chose), my career saw a massive upswing. I’d had bestsellers before, but after copious fees and living expenses, I’d had to churn out another book about new technology or dangerously incautious scientists as fast as possible, just to stay afloat. Not so with this novel. I don’t know why I’d never thought about putting dinosaurs in a book before, but that did it. Sales were through the roof, I had time to enjoy life, and, suddenly, Steven Spielberg took notice of me.
I had long admired Steven. We shared a passion for film, science, and aliens. We both knew that it was not our place to meddle in the affairs of nature, because nature will always win against everything but a bomb. I was ecstatic to be working with someone so acutely aware of the process by which multiple photographed images linked via a filmstrip and displayed quickly in succession over a light projector congeal to form one artistic medium.
The movie exploded, though not in the literal sense of a sudden increase in the volume of energy in a given atmosphere, but rather in the cultural popularity sense. With proof positive of my novels’ abilities to translate to the screen, I received multiple offers from studios wishing to adapt stories such as Underwater Ball and Monkey Jungle. I’d shown that with a little research, a little English, and a whole lot of characters, I could make the money I needed to show the world the one thing it most needed to see.
Chapter 83: Proof that Global Warming is a Lie
Everybody believed eugenics, and that wasn’t real.
We hope you have enjoyed this exclusive view into the mind of a wonderful writer who will be sorely missed. While we may not have another Jurassic Park to look forward to, we can always just read it again.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Bush All About Stopping Other People's Wars
Earlier this week, President Bush sent Condoleeza Rice to Georgia to tell Russia just what is wrong with their war. Now, I'm all for giant, flagrant, incandescent acts of hypocrisy. Just the other day I used my mounted fox to beat the hell out of a taxidermist. But, really, Bush is gonna send... wait. I have to say this in a caveman voice. Bush send Condy lady make stop fightings? Krug confused and violent.
Rice even went so far as to say that Russia's actions are unacceptable in this day and age, obviously forgetting the two wars she's had a hand in prolonging indefinitely. Now, what makes Russia's attacks in Georgia so wrong? The area of Georgia they invaded, South Ossetia, wants to be part of Russia, but Georgia won't let them. There have been Georgian attacks on Ossetians for years. But America will be damned before we let the Russians go in there and take land that the Georgians say is theirs!
You see, Georgia is a democracy. Since we are also a democracy, that means the only possible government that can work is... you get the picture. So, by no means will a democracy be invaded, even if it is being invaded by another democracy (see: Russian Federation), so sayeth the Lord.
The ground rules have been laid. Bush keeps saying it is unacceptable to invade a democratic nation. I assume he's trying to cover his own ass by throwing that "democratic" word in there to avoid anybody going "Wait! Wait! Didn't you needlessly and pointlessly invade a nation just the other day? Oh, no, that was years ago, wasn't it? What do you mean, 'it's still going on?'"
Iraq's government at the time of the U.S. invasion could best be described as a "Shithole." That made it perfectly okay to invade. Now, with hard work and zero planning, we've managed to turn it into a "Big Ol' Mess of a Shithole," and we all know more words means more gooder governin'.
Bush sending the Rice Brigade to the warzone to smooth things over equates to the part in "Silence of the Lambs" when the FBI enlists the help of Hannibal Lecter to find Buffalo Bill. America (Hannibal) says a bunch of crazy shit, licks its lips, and helps Georgia (Jodi Foster) find a way to stop Russia (Buffalo Bill). Everything's going fine, when all of a sudden America cuts the face off of one of its captors and escapes in an ambulance. Not really sure what that symbolizes, so it will probably happen literally.
So, this is a warning to Georgia. If you want all the people to keep their faces, tell Condoleeza Rice to shut the hell up. Otherwise, America will be coming after you in the sequel, in which you will be played by a different actress who forgets to use a Southern accent.
Rice even went so far as to say that Russia's actions are unacceptable in this day and age, obviously forgetting the two wars she's had a hand in prolonging indefinitely. Now, what makes Russia's attacks in Georgia so wrong? The area of Georgia they invaded, South Ossetia, wants to be part of Russia, but Georgia won't let them. There have been Georgian attacks on Ossetians for years. But America will be damned before we let the Russians go in there and take land that the Georgians say is theirs!
You see, Georgia is a democracy. Since we are also a democracy, that means the only possible government that can work is... you get the picture. So, by no means will a democracy be invaded, even if it is being invaded by another democracy (see: Russian Federation), so sayeth the Lord.
The ground rules have been laid. Bush keeps saying it is unacceptable to invade a democratic nation. I assume he's trying to cover his own ass by throwing that "democratic" word in there to avoid anybody going "Wait! Wait! Didn't you needlessly and pointlessly invade a nation just the other day? Oh, no, that was years ago, wasn't it? What do you mean, 'it's still going on?'"
Iraq's government at the time of the U.S. invasion could best be described as a "Shithole." That made it perfectly okay to invade. Now, with hard work and zero planning, we've managed to turn it into a "Big Ol' Mess of a Shithole," and we all know more words means more gooder governin'.
Bush sending the Rice Brigade to the warzone to smooth things over equates to the part in "Silence of the Lambs" when the FBI enlists the help of Hannibal Lecter to find Buffalo Bill. America (Hannibal) says a bunch of crazy shit, licks its lips, and helps Georgia (Jodi Foster) find a way to stop Russia (Buffalo Bill). Everything's going fine, when all of a sudden America cuts the face off of one of its captors and escapes in an ambulance. Not really sure what that symbolizes, so it will probably happen literally.
So, this is a warning to Georgia. If you want all the people to keep their faces, tell Condoleeza Rice to shut the hell up. Otherwise, America will be coming after you in the sequel, in which you will be played by a different actress who forgets to use a Southern accent.
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