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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Man Gives Up After Years Spent Planning YouTube Video
A bad take during shooting led Seattle resident Albert Dykstra to abandon his dream of uploading a video to YouTube after spending three years perfecting the art of balancing miscellaneous stuff on top of other stuff.
Dykstra reached the decision during the first take of the video, in which an attempt to sit a boat engine precariously on top of a unicycle ended just the way one might think it would.
"Albert was devastated," cameraman Jose Aguilar said. "I tried to convince him to just try again, but he said he doesn't work that way. He does it in one take or not at all. He's an artist."
The shock of the failure hit Dykstra's wife and children hardest of all, as he'd almost completely neglected them to spend vast spans of time holed up in a shack in the Seattle forest teaching himself to find an object's center of gravity just by setting it on the edge of a desk so that it wouldn't fall, then pulling it slightly farther over the edge, watching it start to fall, and then trying to find that place in the middle where it wouldn't fall but would kind of sway a little and look like it was about to fall.
"I had to work two jobs to support us while he spent all his time out there dropping stuff on the floor," said Dykstra's wife, Laura. "The whole time I kept telling our 4-year-old triplets 'Don't worry, sweethearts. Soon Daddy will be back with a new skill and we'll be able to afford your insulin.' Now we'll have to solely rely on my ability to flip quarters into distant cups."
Contemporaries in Dykstra's field also felt gut-wrenching remorse when they heard about the meltdown. He was regarded as one of the best modern YouTube-oriented balancists, taking influence from such legendary greats as Francois the Steady-Handed and One-Leg Benny Sanchez.
"It's shocking. Absolutely shocking," amateur balancist and Dykstra admirer Derek Jeter said. "I mean, I never actually saw him do anything because he never got a video online, but I read in his blog that he made one of those champagne glass pyramids and then put it on a German Shepherd and it didn't fall over, even when the dog took off after a rabbit. That's pretty damn good, assuming it's true."
Dykstra declined to be interviewed for this article, though a source close to him (it's his wife) said he has devoted himself to planning a new YouTube clip in which he will vomit into a toilet for hours while his children cry in the background.
Dykstra reached the decision during the first take of the video, in which an attempt to sit a boat engine precariously on top of a unicycle ended just the way one might think it would.
"Albert was devastated," cameraman Jose Aguilar said. "I tried to convince him to just try again, but he said he doesn't work that way. He does it in one take or not at all. He's an artist."
The shock of the failure hit Dykstra's wife and children hardest of all, as he'd almost completely neglected them to spend vast spans of time holed up in a shack in the Seattle forest teaching himself to find an object's center of gravity just by setting it on the edge of a desk so that it wouldn't fall, then pulling it slightly farther over the edge, watching it start to fall, and then trying to find that place in the middle where it wouldn't fall but would kind of sway a little and look like it was about to fall.
"I had to work two jobs to support us while he spent all his time out there dropping stuff on the floor," said Dykstra's wife, Laura. "The whole time I kept telling our 4-year-old triplets 'Don't worry, sweethearts. Soon Daddy will be back with a new skill and we'll be able to afford your insulin.' Now we'll have to solely rely on my ability to flip quarters into distant cups."
Contemporaries in Dykstra's field also felt gut-wrenching remorse when they heard about the meltdown. He was regarded as one of the best modern YouTube-oriented balancists, taking influence from such legendary greats as Francois the Steady-Handed and One-Leg Benny Sanchez.
"It's shocking. Absolutely shocking," amateur balancist and Dykstra admirer Derek Jeter said. "I mean, I never actually saw him do anything because he never got a video online, but I read in his blog that he made one of those champagne glass pyramids and then put it on a German Shepherd and it didn't fall over, even when the dog took off after a rabbit. That's pretty damn good, assuming it's true."
Dykstra declined to be interviewed for this article, though a source close to him (it's his wife) said he has devoted himself to planning a new YouTube clip in which he will vomit into a toilet for hours while his children cry in the background.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Russia: Just So Darn Cute
Oh, Russia. Just look at you. I remember when you were all big and menacing, pointing all your missiles at everyone and daring them to make a move. Everyone was so scared of you, and for good reason. You were a bad ass. A bad ass with a gun in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other, and we, the rest of the world, had to keep telling you to please stop drinking so much before you killed us all.
But look at you now. No more Union of Soviet Socialist Republics or "CCCP," as you called it. Which, to be honest, didn't make sense, cause none of those words start in C or P. No more mass tyranny. No more tension-filled Olympic games where the crowd was just waiting on one of your hockey players to pull a knife. You've changed. You're old now. Senile. You always forget where you put the gun, so you just pick up another bottle of vodka, softly binge yourself to sleep every night, and slur a prayer to "Gyod," asking him to please not let you asphyxiate to death.
So I get it. I see what you're doing in Georgia. You've got your publicists ready and you're starting a war with one of your old nations right as the Olympics fire up. It's adorable. I love how you managed to throw the word "genocide" around, too, in order to make the U.S. and all the countries that disagree with you seem heartless and uncaring toward the Ossetians. Just like the old days.
And those bombs you dropped? Priceless. You've whacked Georgia on the head with your cane, called it a "whippersnapper," and retreated to your corner chair to loudly fart without fear of any social consequence. The rest of the nations will just give each other a knowing glance and a poorly-concealed smirk. "There goes Russia again. Get the Lysol."
We could fight back against you. Try and show you the error of your ways, or at least set you up with a volunteer job at a polling place for each election. We could throw you into a home and never see you or hear from you again. But the truth is, Russia, we just love having you around too much to do any of that. You give us much needed laughs when we visit every few months. So we'll do what we always do: let you go. Sure, when you try to steal some baklava from the supermarket, we'll scold you in front of the employees. But that's just a show, because as soon as we're out the door we'll giggle uncontrollably, high-fiving each other at how priceless you are. Then we'll realize that you really thought the store was a communist warehouse and you could just take whatever you wanted, and we'll laugh even harder.
Please, Russia, just keep doing what you're doing. We know that all your precious idiosyncracies are just the result of the tightening grip of Death. But until we have to mourn your loss, we're going to crack up at your quarrels.
But look at you now. No more Union of Soviet Socialist Republics or "CCCP," as you called it. Which, to be honest, didn't make sense, cause none of those words start in C or P. No more mass tyranny. No more tension-filled Olympic games where the crowd was just waiting on one of your hockey players to pull a knife. You've changed. You're old now. Senile. You always forget where you put the gun, so you just pick up another bottle of vodka, softly binge yourself to sleep every night, and slur a prayer to "Gyod," asking him to please not let you asphyxiate to death.
So I get it. I see what you're doing in Georgia. You've got your publicists ready and you're starting a war with one of your old nations right as the Olympics fire up. It's adorable. I love how you managed to throw the word "genocide" around, too, in order to make the U.S. and all the countries that disagree with you seem heartless and uncaring toward the Ossetians. Just like the old days.
And those bombs you dropped? Priceless. You've whacked Georgia on the head with your cane, called it a "whippersnapper," and retreated to your corner chair to loudly fart without fear of any social consequence. The rest of the nations will just give each other a knowing glance and a poorly-concealed smirk. "There goes Russia again. Get the Lysol."
We could fight back against you. Try and show you the error of your ways, or at least set you up with a volunteer job at a polling place for each election. We could throw you into a home and never see you or hear from you again. But the truth is, Russia, we just love having you around too much to do any of that. You give us much needed laughs when we visit every few months. So we'll do what we always do: let you go. Sure, when you try to steal some baklava from the supermarket, we'll scold you in front of the employees. But that's just a show, because as soon as we're out the door we'll giggle uncontrollably, high-fiving each other at how priceless you are. Then we'll realize that you really thought the store was a communist warehouse and you could just take whatever you wanted, and we'll laugh even harder.
Please, Russia, just keep doing what you're doing. We know that all your precious idiosyncracies are just the result of the tightening grip of Death. But until we have to mourn your loss, we're going to crack up at your quarrels.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Movies I Haven't Seen: "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2"
From the opening scene of a coven of witches slowly roasting a child over a garbage-can fire, to the gut-wrenching finale featuring a "Gilmore Girls" reunion amongst a throng of the walking dead, "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2" is this summer's must-watch action-horror-explosion blockbuster.
There's really only one adjective that can describe this gorefest: sexy. Sexy, sexy gorefest. Gorefest is a noun. Also, it is impossible to put too many sexies in front of the word gorefest. It's just that sexy. So, let me just sum it up by saying that "Sisterhood" is a (sexy)^n gorefest, where n = infinity. You can't even fathom it with your useless human brain.
The explosions don't seem to stop in this film. Anything that can blow up, does. Even things that can't blow up just explode anyway without regard to the laws of nature or physics. At one point an apple, brough to life by one of the witches (the hot one), jumps onto a train, yells "I'm bad to the core!" and then blows up in a conflagration of death and terror that would spin a normal movie into a spiral of chaotic destruction that none could believe. But this is no normal movie. As you view "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2," you reach a new level of consciousness previously only thought to have been acheivable by the deranged. Everything makes sense. The planets align, and you can see them, man! You watch them get in a straight line (you can't see past Jupiter cause it's all fat and blocks the others) and the whole universe shudders, exhales, and you understand the movie. It's some deep stuff. Deep explosions and subtle eloquence.
See, the Traveling Pants are a metaphor. In the 1800s, when this film is set, laws were in place that only allowed men to create pants. Women couldn't even wear pants, lest they face brutal beheading and village-endorsed rape, in that order. So the sisterhood of witches came together in the dead of night and brought some crazy-ass pants to life by sewing them with the hair of a werewolf and washing them in the blood of a man from western Louisiana. Thus, the living pants traveled about the countryside, kicking stuff and disrupting the social order of early America by subtly influencing leaders to make policy decisions that could one day bring about women's suffrage. It's gripping. You're going to cry a bunch.
I would say there are few films as poignant, moving, and violent as "Sisterhood." It's like Quentin Tarantino meets Che Guevara meets Penny Marshall. You will love it.
There's really only one adjective that can describe this gorefest: sexy. Sexy, sexy gorefest. Gorefest is a noun. Also, it is impossible to put too many sexies in front of the word gorefest. It's just that sexy. So, let me just sum it up by saying that "Sisterhood" is a (sexy)^n gorefest, where n = infinity. You can't even fathom it with your useless human brain.
The explosions don't seem to stop in this film. Anything that can blow up, does. Even things that can't blow up just explode anyway without regard to the laws of nature or physics. At one point an apple, brough to life by one of the witches (the hot one), jumps onto a train, yells "I'm bad to the core!" and then blows up in a conflagration of death and terror that would spin a normal movie into a spiral of chaotic destruction that none could believe. But this is no normal movie. As you view "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2," you reach a new level of consciousness previously only thought to have been acheivable by the deranged. Everything makes sense. The planets align, and you can see them, man! You watch them get in a straight line (you can't see past Jupiter cause it's all fat and blocks the others) and the whole universe shudders, exhales, and you understand the movie. It's some deep stuff. Deep explosions and subtle eloquence.
See, the Traveling Pants are a metaphor. In the 1800s, when this film is set, laws were in place that only allowed men to create pants. Women couldn't even wear pants, lest they face brutal beheading and village-endorsed rape, in that order. So the sisterhood of witches came together in the dead of night and brought some crazy-ass pants to life by sewing them with the hair of a werewolf and washing them in the blood of a man from western Louisiana. Thus, the living pants traveled about the countryside, kicking stuff and disrupting the social order of early America by subtly influencing leaders to make policy decisions that could one day bring about women's suffrage. It's gripping. You're going to cry a bunch.
I would say there are few films as poignant, moving, and violent as "Sisterhood." It's like Quentin Tarantino meets Che Guevara meets Penny Marshall. You will love it.
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