Culture in Decline

I happened across MSN.com today at work, which is a completely useless news service, and saw this:

Could a sports bra recharge an iPod?

Could it? Do I care? Well, as I'm going to berate it, I kind of care.

The first sentence of this report reads: "As a woman who loves sports, I've always found the concept of breasts bothersome." Already, alarm bells are ringing. What did she just say? Her writing is almost as worthless as mine. Thank you, Internet.

This journalist later refers to herself as the "Asian Dolly Parton." Therefore, she's calling herself normal? Average? I don't really understand the title.

I would rather have Dolly Parton's vibrating "Jolene" echo through my brain all day than see a woman jump start her compact car with her breasts.

Wait, no. I retract that last statement.

WANTED: My Brain Back

Here's what I learned from seeing Wanted:

1. James McAvoy is the Ewan McGregor you can get. He has some trouble in masking his accent.

2. It's extremely easy to make a mustang barrel-roll in mid-air if you first ramp it off a Corvette.

3. Hollywood does not have a person sitting around behind the scenes that says: "Mmm...that would be stupid" or "Yeah, I'm not too keen on that right there." This job position does not seem to exist.

4. I am extremely gullible.

Strippers Need Ranch

I got another call from a stripper tonight at work. She ordered food and then passed the phone on to three other strippers who ordered their own food. Dynasty, Ina, Amy, and Lisa. One of those names could be made up.

Each lady asked for extra ketchup and extra ranch dressing with their calamari, onion rings, chicken quesadilla minus the cheese. It was at this point that I finally realized how necessary ranch dressing is to the south.

What would a barbecue restaurant be without ranch dressing? What would the KKK be without racism? After many hours of research, I pulled these findings out of thin air: Most trucking companies based out of Alabama, Texas, and Tennessee (did you know this?) run their engines with ranch dressing.

If the south did "rise again," as many here dream, I'm pretty sure burning the ranch storage tanks would cripple their economy. We wouldn't need General Sherman to march through Georgia, twisting railroads and burning henhouses. Bless that man.

Goodbye, George

Some of your jokes were far too long, you had a role on Shining Time Station, and you were a big supporter of Ron Paul. But, we still loved you. You still made us laugh.

Deepest Apologies

Sorry, I haven't posted in a while. Lately it feels like a cat's got my tongue.

(Yes, that's supposed to be a tongue, Perv.)

I thought this all up after reading the license plate "MRS ROCK" on a large truck.
_____________________________
Ethel Rock works in a nearby quarry, operating cranes and brewing coffee for "the boys." She comes home every day around 6:00pm, dismounting from her large Ford F-350 truck using a red, aluminum step ladder. E. Rock happens to be three feet tall and alone.

Before going to bed, she washes the soot off her face. It accumulates on her forehead, just under where the hardhat sits. Dust and granite particles. Mostly dust.

She changes clothes quickly, quietly, then uses said aluminum step ladder to climb into bed. Ethel dreams of the tall husband that will grace her future. Taller than most men, in pleated pants, who likes a woman unafraid of getting dirty. An extremely tall, slender man with slender arms to massage her calloused feet. An affectionate telephone pole. Some day she'll have to cook four scrambled eggs in the morning, instead of two.

Six eggs, if the man is tall enough.

Ethel bought her truck months ago to accommodate her future tall husband.
"What sort of vehicle are you looking for today, ma'am?"
"Something large. Lots of head room."
"Well, all Fords come with spacious--"
"I want that one," she said, pointing at her truck. The red ladder strapped to her back and angled skyward.

Her boss special-ordered a crane two-thirds the scale of most heavy cranes so Ethel Rock would be able to operate with ease and comfort. Sometimes, when the lunch whistle rings, the men carry her on their shoulders toward the picnic tables. She holds on by clutching to their hardhats, never touching their heads nor shoulders. Sending the wrong signal would be bad. Ethel wants a man that is both wealthy and tall.

"What lunch you pack today, Ethel?"
"Red snapper. Ants on a log."

She doesn't talk much.

E. Rock keeps her hair short like the men at work. It's a sign of unity. It's a sign of low maintenance.

On weekends, she goes deep sea fishing for more red snapper. If she stands on tiptoe, she can see over the bow and gaze at the undulating brown water. Two older men are to her left, joking that she's just small enough to be used as bait. An anchovy, for chrissake! Ethel ignores them. Her future husband could teach them both a lesson without letting go of his reel.

There was a time when mowing the yard was worse than smallpox.

But now I kind of like it. How strange.

My last issue of The New Yorker came in the mail today. There it sat alone in the tin mailbox, asking me to renew.

But I don't really need to know what's going on in a city 1,300 miles away (rough estimate) and I've never laughed at the cartoons that go alongside the articles (exact estimate).

I don't need to see the movie reviews, either. My God, does Carrie ever get married? She might show her groodies. I don't care much for that Parker girl.

George Saunders wrote a piece. I laughed inside a few times. Hypocrites. You'll never get me to laugh out loud in this air-conditioned apartment.

I've written 191 of these damn things. Imagine had I posted the things to some corkboard. The staircase here is of questionable stability.

Nabokov knew what he was doing. I can read that for myself. This article on Ezra Pound's skill and Fascism, however...

"How stupid, all things considered."

The Mullet Factor

I need an emergency haircut. The hair in the back always grows faster than everything else.



I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. Here's an illustration:














As you can see on the y-axis, there comes a point where I will actually gain enemies. The situation is dire, almost as dire as the impending stingray invasion.

To apply today's lesson to popular culture:

Sometimes I get the feeling a friend is secretly moonlighting as a fortune cookie writer.

Good try, Kiddo

You're still the most tenacious person in history. Well, that's definitely arguable, and I didn't check my facts on that. I mean, there were several assassination attempts on the life of Henry IV (some say around 17-18!). Maybe Rasputin can be considered the most tenacious...

Still, you get the idea. Maybe next time?

I bought a stereo for my car, and it came with a remote control, and I'm awfully confused.

Am I supposed to use this remote control if, perchance, I'm sitting in the backseat and want to adjust the volume but I'm feeling much too comfortable to reach through the front seats? My arms can only go so far.

I think I'll write the Pioneer electronics company a letter.