Biter's Wrlock

My readers, all four of you that are left.  I'll put it to you straight - I've hit a bit of a conundrum.

You see, somehow writing about 'nothing important' has turned into an aimless task.  So, I want to focus the blog a little more, or refocus, as it t'were.

If you, that reader, are still out there, I ask you: what about this blog did you like?  What didn't you like?  Is it irredeemable crap, or should I venture on, full sail?

I'll point out, in case anybody was curious, that I've never gotten a single comment on my blog.  I'd love to hear some now!

NOW!  AT THREE IN THE MORNING!

-Great Chank da Stank

The Ten Condimentmandments

Once again, dear readers, it is Confession Time:

I am a Condiment Snob.  

Whereas the common rabble cares not about their dips, toppings, dressings, relishes, and other such food-based peripherals, I am throughly obsessed with them.  And when I say obsessed, I mean in the most demented, necro-psycho-sexual way possible.  Yes, that does look like exactly what you're imagining right now.  (Hold that image as you read this article)

What insights has such a Captain Ahab-like focus given me?  Many.  

What is the state of Condiments in the world today?  Shitty.  

Who's gonna do something about said shitty state of Condiments in the world today?  

I AM.  

The onus falls on me, my patrons, to address the manifold problems springing from the undulating world of Condimentarianism, and to declare, in these uncertain times, new rules governing the use and distribution of these Food-Enhancing Supplements (or FES, as nobody including myself calls them).

What follows are my mandatory guidelines for future Condiment conduct for everybody, everywhere, forever.  I expect them to be followed to the letter.  And yes, that includes you Burger King. (Makes me sad BK; you, me, and the Kid's Club? Used to be boys, son...)

1. Thou Needst Give Me More Ketchup

Since this is a set of rules, and not another mere online Top Ten list, I've chosen to start with the most important Commandment of Condiments, pertaining to the most Important of Condiments, the Holiest of Holies...

KETCHUP

That's a tad silly...

A bit much...

What the hell is this?

This is rank defilement and sacrilege!

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!! WHAT DARK POWER ARE YOU THRALL TO!??

Ketchup, as all good Americans should know, is the best foodstuff ever made.  That is why we, as a country, make and devour living fucktons of it all the fucking time.

So, then,  why do so many of America's fast food franchises have such a problem dealing with ketchup?

"What problem?" you ask, stupidly.

"WHAT PROBLEM!!!???" I scream, smacking you violently about the face and neck, "WHAT FUCKING PROBLEM?!!?!!!?  I'LL TELL YOU WHAT FUCKING PROBLEM!"

Most fast food restaurants nowadays have their own secret special variety of ketchups, kinds that we John Q. Publics never get to buy at the grocery store.  So when I go to get fast food, I don't count my house ketchup as a worthy gladiator in the feasting Colosseum that is my tummy.

I need that Fast Food Ketchup, and I needs it GOOD.  

Most of the time, I can get said ketchup from some manner of crude pump, from which said salty-sweet red good mayst pour out.  This is a good and righteous system, and such franchises that implement them are wellsprings of prosperity and fertility for themselves and neighboring townships.

However, shouldst one be caught in the trap of the ever-vicious Drive-Through, or, worse yet, a fast food restaurant without a working ketchup faucet, one is forced into the ever-so-awful quest of acquiring one's desired hoard of ketchup from an employee.

 You know what you get when you ask a fast food restaurant employee for ketchup packets?  Two, maybe three packets.  Four if it's your birthday, on the night of a full moon, during the airing of a rerun of the episode of Fresh Prince where Will and Carlton get pulled over and arrested, and learn a harsh lesson about 90's-style racism.

In short, what the fuck am I going to do with 2-4 packets of ketchup?  (Shift abruptly from 2nd to 1st person for no good reason?)

Nothing.  I can do nothing with that little ketchup.  Smatter a fry or two perhaps with a spinkling of flavor, but no more.

Thus, the first rule is: Give me more fucking Ketchup.

This brings me directly to my second rule of Condimentary Etiquette...

2. Really, Thou Didst Not Give Me Enough Ketchup, I Needst, Like, Twice That

ANOTHER TWO FUCKING PACKETS??? THAT'S IT??? 

That in total covers, what, 8-12 fries for me?  Am I going to have to squeeze out one packet at a time, so as to ensure that as little ketchup as possible is lost in the spreading across the surface of my wrapper?

Like, seriously, Mr. or Ms. or Mrs. Fast Food Employee, what is so precious about your damnably delicious paquets of Catsup? (I'll spell it like that when I'm huffing paint thinner, whichIamdoingrightnowthankyouverymuch.)

It's not like you're concerned about the waste of plastic, or the environment.  And if ketchup was expensive, you wouldn't let people pump out as much as they could possibly want for free.

So, is giving me a wad of 12-18 packets of ketchup with my order of small french fries such a fucking hassle?  Is it?

So yeah, from here on out, bitches, here's the rule: 

     Step 1: Take the number of ketchup packets you were about to give me.
     Step 2: Double the number from step 1
     Step 3: Add 3 to the number from step 2
     Step 4: Give me as many ketchup packets as you can fit in your two hands.  Once you've done
                 that, go back and get me another twenty packets.  Thank you.

3. Thou Shalt Not Charge For Dipping Sauces

Popeye's, I'm not sure if I brought this up before, dawg, but you charge for your dipping sauces when ordering non-dipping items, or just for extra dip.  That's cold.  I already talked about how you went and killed off my second favorite Condiment next to ketchup, but now you want to make me pay money for the scrubs you brought in to replace my beloved Confetti Sweet & Sour sauce?  For shame, Louisiana Kitchen, for shame.

The rule is: Your sauce ain't special, so don't charge for it.  

4. Speakingst of Dipping Sauces, Burger King's Dipping Sauces Need Vast Improvement

Have you tried Burger King's line of dipping sauces?

I love stock art almost as much as I love misappropriating other people's image files

Rule: For the love of fuck, do not attempt to ingest Burger King's dipping sauces.  

5. Thou Shalt Not Tellst Me When I've Had Enough 

Listen, Mr. Subway sandwich-maker, when I tell you I want more fucking jalapenos and hummus on my Meat-fucking-ball Marinara Flatbread sub, you put more fucking jalapenos and hummus on my Meat-fucking-ball Marinara Flatbread sub!  Don't tell me the sandwich won't close, or you've run out of ingredients - GO TO THE BACK AND GET MORE IF YOU MUST!

Rule: If I ask you to dump the entire bin of black olives on my sandwich, you better fucking do it.

6. Thou Shalt Stop Piling Too Much Shit Onto Nachos

I cannot understand (much less abide) people who love to pile a mountain of condiments on top of a plate of nachos.  To me, you might as well just have pulled down your pants and taken a giant Mexican-style shit all over a plate of perfectly good tortilla chips.

Pictured: Tortilla Abuse

Oh, yeah, sure, some of the upper and outer chips will remain fine, perhaps even tasty.  Some of the toppings might even not be horrible shit such as guacamole, or that brown bean paste that can't help but remind you of feces.

But then, once the best of the toppings are eaten, what are you left with?  Some fresh, condimentless chips that are ripe for scraping the leftover cheese and such?

NO, you're left with a bunch of soggy-ass chips sitting in the bottom of the bowl, moping about like the one guy who went stag to the prom.  And who the fuck wants to dance with a lump of soggy chips?

Rule: Chips are only for dipp... oh fuck... why was I the only guy who went stag to prom?  Am... am I a... *sniff* ... a soggy chip?     

7. Thou Shalt Offer Oral Sex To Thy Maker Of The "Dip & Squeeze" Ketchup Packet

Rule: OH MUH FUCK IS THAT A BADASS MOTHER-FUCKING KETCHUP PACKET, OR WHAT?

YOU CAN FUCKING SQUEEZE IT, FOR BURGERS AND SHIT!

YOU CAN MAKE IT INTO A DIPPING BASIN, FOR FRIES AND SHIT!

FIND WHO MADE THIS!  

PERFORM ORAL SEX ON THEM!

TELL THEM GREAT CHANKERY STANKERY SENT YOU!

THEY'LL KNOW WHO I AM, I PROMISE!

8. Thou Shalt Keep A Close Eye On Parmesan Cheese Shakers

I used to work in a pizza place.  We had to clean out the cheese shakers regularly, scrape out the mixture of rust and old, moldy cheese.  So uh, yeah, not really hyperbole here.  Just some good, homespun advice:

Rule: Check to make sure your cheese shaker at your favorite pizza place isn't full of rat shit or somesuch.

9. Thou Shalt Also Offer Oral Sex To Whomever Invented The Inverted Ketchup Bottle

Rule: Find the person who designed this bottle, then repeat step 7.   

10. Thou Shalt Always Make Pickles Available In Large Quantities For Free

Jerry's Pizza doesn't care if somebody absconds with several mini-containers full of pickles.  Nor does Quizno's Subs.  So why don't all these other fucking franchises pick up on the fact that A: People like Pickles, and B: Free Pickles are fucking amazing.  Man, back when I could find a Roy Roger's in my area, they let us steal all the fucking pickles we liked.

Those were the days.

Rule: PICKLES!  FREE!  NOW!

Well, dear reader, it sure has been fun outlining my ironclad laws for the future of the fast food industry, just as much fun as it will be when you join me to help enforce those laws!  But that... that is a set of subliminal orders for another day.  Until then...

Keep It Stankin'

"The Beawesomeining of Netflix" or "An appeal to Netflix for some of their money."

(WARNING: TODAY'S ARTICLE CONTAINS AWESOMENESS, COUPLED WITH AN UNBRIDLED LEVEL OF KISSING THE ASS OF NETFLIX IN A FRENCH FASHION.  IN NO WAY WHATSOEVER NO-SIREE IS SAID ASS-KISSERY A FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO GAIN SOME FORM OF SPONSORSHIP OR PITY MONEY FROM ASS-KISSEE.  ALSO, SOME OF THE STUFF I SHOW LATER MIGHT ENDANGER EITHER YOUR SOURCE OF INCOME OR YOUR APPETITE.  YOU'VE BEEN WARNED, TURDMUFFLERS.) 

Let's take a break from the bitching, shall we?  

Let's get back

TO

TEH 

AWAEEAASOMEYYY!!!

That's right, Cocktitulons (my AWESOME new name for you, my loyal readers), today I'm putting the acerbic bile aside, and in its stead putting forth...

AWESOMENESS!!!

WHEN AWESOME???

NOW!

WHAT TIME AWESOME?

TODAY!

WHAT AWESOME NOW TODAY?!?!?

NET-FUCKING-FLIX IS FUCKING AWESOME NOW TODAY!!!

When I got Netflix, I knew there were some good movies on there, like Tank Girl, maybe even a few great ones, like Robocop 3.  Movies that if I hadn't seen, I'd heard of.  Movies I know I'd want to watch at some point or another, but just hadn't gotten around to yet.  I signed up for Netflix because I wanted to see those movies.  That, and a living metric fuckton of Star Trek.  They've got lots of the TREKKAGE:  

What I wasn't prepared for, however, was all the AWESOME movies that I had never even known existed.  A Lost World, my readers, has been revealed to me, one far better than that 12-year-old-girl-kicking-a-motherfucking-veliociraptor-wow-really-how-fucking-imbicilic-does-Steven-Spielberg-think-we-are sequel to Jurassic Park.  (Oh wait, that was bitching, sorry, back on track now.)

What movies I have seen!  What joys!

Movies like... (I get slightly chubs just typing this) Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch:

I know what you're thinking: "Did Great Chankery Stankery just really recommend an Air Bud movie?" Well, not exactly.  You see, I just wanted to see a movie about a baseball-playing dog, not a cheesy kid's adventure featuring Al from Home Improvement.  I mean, come on, how am I gonna rub a toasty one out to Al from Home Improvement?

But with Netflix, I can just skip straight to those scintillating scenes of a dog playing baseball.  And does Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch deliver?  You bet my last kleenex it does!  Why, watch here as Air Bud WINS THE FUCKING WORLD SERIES!

Isn't that the best scene you've ever watched of a dog fielding a softly thrown baseball to complete  a double play to win the final game of the World Series, which is also inexplicably being played during the day?  

WELL IT SURE IS THE BEST ONE I'VE EVER SEEN! IN SPACE!

Also, if not for Netflix, I never would have seen Christopher Plummer HALT THE FUCKING FLOW OF TIME in the 1978 science fiction mega-epic Starcrash:

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANY OLD MAN BE SO COOL ABOUT FREEZING THE FLOW OF TIME?!?!?  MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU THINK DOC BROWN COULD BE SO CALM IN THAT SITUATION? PROBABLY NOT!  HE'D MOST LIKELY SAY "GREAT SCOTT!" OR "WHAT'S THE PROBLEM WITH GRAVITY IN THE FUTURE?" OR SOME SHIT!  CHRIS PLUMMER DON'T FUCK 'ROUND, DAWG!  ARF ARF ARF!!!

Outside the realm of baseball-playing dogs and Space Magic, Netflix showed me Screwballs, a classic 80's teen sex romp in which a guy USES THE POWER OF HIS EJACULATE TO BOWL A STRIKE: 

(ON A TOTALLY AWESOME NOTE, THE FOLLOWING VIDEO IS PROBABLY NSFW, WHICH I BELIEVE IS INTERNETESE FOR "NAUGHTY STUFF FEATURING WANGS")

Man, the last time I had a bunch of women rub all over my naked body and call me by name, it was to get a ping-pong ball off my schlong.  Nor did it help my reputation when said ball fell limply to the floor upon my climaxing.  Ahhh, high school...

Speaking of which, by way of the 2010 magnum opus of teen drama, Cyberbully, I saw the true and AWESOME nature of bullying in the cyber fashion:

DUDE, DID YOU SEE HOW BADLY THAT SLUT GOT BURNED?  BECAUSE THE BEST WAY TO SHAME SOMEBODY IS TO WEAR A MASK AND MAKE VAGUE ACCUSATIONS WITHOUT ANY EVIDENCE!  INTERNET!  AWEEEEEESOME!  

Finally, Netflix introduced me to the world of Riki-Oh, the bruuuuutal Japanese prison movie about a guy who AWESOMELY kills and mutilates his way through half a prison:

(WARNING: POSSIBLE VOMIT/PINK SLIP VIDEO INCOMING, GRAND-PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED, BY WHICH I MEAN GET A GRANDPARENT OR GHOST OF A GRANDPARENT'S APPROVAL TO WATCH THE FOLLOWING CLIP)

WERE YOU NOT JUST AWESOMED???

I DARE YOU NOT TO HAVE JUST BEEN!!!

THANKS NETFLIX!

NETFLIX, CAN MAKE ME SPONSOR NOW?

GIVE MONEYS ME?

PLEASE?

IF YOU WEREN'T IMPRESSED MR NETFLIX, I LEAVE YOU WITH THIS:

Keep It Stankin'

NEW YURRS DURRBURR FEECHER!

It might seem to you, my dear reader, that I have once again abandoned my sacred duty here, leaving you all without so much as a post on Christmas or New Years.

It might seem to you that it would be a good time to make a New Year's Resolution - to update this young and supple blog on a more predictable basis, like, you know, once a week.

However, as is well established, the surest way to fail at something is to make it a New Year's Resolution.  It's a tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme...

Aaaaaamanda aaaaand Nick theeeeee Beeeeeeaaaast! (Google Image Search wins again)

So while I won't make any guarantees on future returns, let me assure you, reader, that Heavy Excremetal is going to blow your shit up in 2013.  So be sure to get out of the bathroom in a hurry after you flush.

Before I get into the challenges of the New Year, I have a few loose ends to tie up and tickle mercilessly until they either die or give me the location of the kidnapped ambassador.  Enjoy, Excremities!

Why Teen Wolf Too is Not a Particularly Splendid Film, Part El Segundo

When last I wrote, I had listed off the parts of Teen Wolf Too that didn't entirely suck.  It would seem natural here that I would now list off the parts that did.  And so I will.  In due time.  Which is now.

1. The Non-Return of Coach Finstock

In Teen Wolf Good, Scott Howard is guided in the way of the hoops by Mr. I-couldn't-give-two-shits Coach Finstock, portrayed by the desquealeant Jay Tarses.  These following three minutes are the bulk of his appearance in the film:

Pretty fuckin' awesome for a character who gets three minutes of screen time, right?

I SAID RIGHT, BITCH!?

Well fuck what you think, I fuckin love this character.  He doesn't give a shit, has a shit job, probably has no wife or family to speak of, but he doesn't give a fuckin' fuck.  My kinda dude.

So yeah, look what the fuck they do with him in Tingling Wolf Balls Also:

You would be surprised how hard it was to find a picture of this dude.  

I couldn't find a Youtube clip to carry my point across, but hopefully you can tell from this still that this version of Coach Finstock, played by not-Jay Tarses, is a loser, a schlub who, in spite of being promoted to college boxing coach because of his werewolf-aided success with his... high school... uh... basketball team (because those two sports are so alike?), was somehow able to completely lose his zest for life between the two movies.  In this sequel Bobby's just a pessimistic douchebag who is incompetent and lazy and somehow doesn't see how that makes him better than everybody else.

So, uh, yeah, Boo-urns to that.

2. The crapdasciousally non-existent character connections

Remember how in Teen Wolf: The Fellowship of the Dicknoses, Scott Howard wanted more than anything to bang out Pamela Wells, the hottest girl at school?  And remember how Pamela is dating Mick, Scott's arch-nemesis in basketball?

Also, do you remember how Scott's other rival, the vice-principal, knew Scott's dad back when they were in high school?  Remember how Scott is obviously supposed to end up dating Boof, his childhood sweetheart, as they're so totally meant for each other?

No?  You weren't paying that much attention?  You were too busy enjoying life and not paying attention to stupid bullshit like the character backgrounds of second-rate 80's movies?  Well, since you're such an ignorant little shit, let me point out that the previously mentioned plot details are fairly decent scriptwriting decisions.

SURR GURRRS WHURRT DURRR SURRQURR DURRS, GURRS?

If you guessed that Teen Wolf: The Too Towers removed any and all sort of backstory or connection between the protagonist and antagonists, you'd be super fucking correct!  Todd Howard's boxing rival?  Just some dude.  The evil dean?  Just an evil dean.  Todd's object of unobtainable affection?  Two random women who are given all the characterization of wallpaper.  Todd's true love?  Some chick that he does some homework with, whose characterization makes wallpaper downright erotic.

Do you see, TWT?  Do you see what happens when you try to chop a movie into pieces and reassemble it, a la Boondock Saints 2?

3. That weird fucking makeup

Imma make this one quick.  Teen Wolf First:

Teen Wolf Second:

WHY DOES TEEN WOLF SECOND LOOK SO WEIRD?  And so... pasty white?  It just doesn't work for a werewolf, does it?  Michael J. Fox looks the part, but Jason Bateman looks like a lunatic who went around gluing wigs around his face.

4. What's up "Dog"?

Another quick one, but one that pisses me off to no end.

SO MANY TIMES in TWT they refer to Todd as a 'dog'.  I can understand the comparison, but they use the term more than 'werewolf'.  And it's a fucking WEREWOLF MOVIE.

So I guess the point is, say 'werewolf' instead of 'dog', dammit Beavis.

5. STILEEEEESSSS!

DID I MENTION THEY REPLACED STILES?

DID I????

CHEEEHHHEEEE!!! 

CHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!!!

SKEWWWWWWEEEEEEWWWWWW!!!

PICTURED LEFT: NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW

NO STILES I KNOW
NO STILES I KNOW

I KNOW NO STILES
I KNOW NO STILES

I KNOW NO STILES

I

KNOW

NO

STILES!

make stop... please make stop

how did they do this to you, Stiles?

what did they do to you, Jerry Levine?

i weep bloody tears

Shit That Has To Stop, Part II - Christmas Edition

The 12 Days of Christmas

A wittier writer might attempt to write this part of the article in verse, but wittier writers also have a bad habit of smelling their own farts, whereas my fart-smelling habit comes doctor-approved.  

You see, since I skipped my first annual Christmas article, I thought I would make it up to you now, over a week later, when the very last thing you want to think about would be Christmas.  

Specifically, I want to posit this question:

WHY IN FUCK'S NAME DOES ANYBODY, ANYWHERE ON THE PLANET, STILL SING THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS?

I chose this image not for humor, but because it is soooo completely complementing my mescaline binge. 

Like, really, do I need to explain why this song is so horrible?  It certainly was a bane of my childhood,  and I'm sure it was a bane of yours.  (Batman joke... just not coming... sorry guys)    

First, we all know there aren't twelve days of Christmas.  Even if we're going by one of those old timey 1800's church calendars, it's not like we get to enjoy twelve days of Christmas anyway.  All we do by continuing to sing this song is confuse children into thinking that they're going to get more fucking presents on December 26th.  (But to be fair, if I had kids, I'd trick them into thinking they were getting presents on December 25th.  Dem tasty tears...)

Second, the song is sooooo long.  It was clearly written in a time when Christmas carols were  one of few holiday-time alternatives to such activities as freezing your ass off or watching all of your friends and family die of tuberculosis.  Could you imagine living in such horrible times?  Singing the same shit, over and over, adding one turd to the skewer each time, until, by the time you're finished, you have a turd kebab long enough to feed a family of turd-eaters?  

Finally, and perhaps most offensive to the mind of a child, is the sheer crappiness of the gifts involved.  Look over the lyrics to the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Just look at them.  

LOOOOOOK AT THEMMMM!!  

If you LOOOOOOKED AT THEMMMMMM, you'll notice that the gifts in 12DoC (as I'm now dubbing it) fall into three categories:

1. Birds - Because what kid doesn't want a bunch of birds shitting all over the new toys their got on Christmas?

2. Rings - Because children are jewelry-and/or-marriage-obsessed young women???

3. People - Slaves!  Apparently fancy slaves, because my true love got me not just some peasant milkmaids and a few musicians, but also Lords and Ladies!  I wonder what palace my true love had to sack to get those?

GREAT GIFTS FOR KIDS, RIGHT?  

GREAT SONG FOR THE HOLIDAYS, RIGHT?

Please, next year, if you are a churchgoer or caroler in any position to stop this song from being sung, please, PLEASE, I beg you, direct your fellow carolers to this blog.  Let them see the light.  

Let's get a 12DoC-Free Christmas goin in 2013.  

If not for me, than for your children.  

Unless, of course, you want your kids to be bling-encrusted slave owners who live surrounded in bird filth.  

Keep It Stankin'

The "Euuuuhhhh" Side of the Dicknose: A Review of Teen Wolf Too, Part Oon

Well, now that I've covered everything I like about Teen Wolf, let's cover the leftover crap that dropped from the dog's dingleberries, shall we?

IT'S TEEN WOLF TOO!

OR AS I LIKE TO CALL IT, 

PEE'IN WOLF POO!

I chose this image because it's much easier for me to tolerate this movie existing if I simply pretend it's just the sequel to some totally unrelated film called "Muchacho Lobo Uno".  

Let me make this clear: Teen Wolf Too is not the worst piece of garbage ever made.  

Not even close.  

Just painfully sub-mediocre.

It's one of those movies that you don't need to watch, because you already saw it, but done better. 

BACK WHEN IT WAS CALLED TEEN WOLF.  

That's right.  Teen Wolf Too ("Too" as in "also", as in "this movie just wants to be the first one, but again, and without any of the charm or storytelling logic.") is not a sequel in the true sense of the word, but is instead simply a remake of Teen Wolf Classic, with Scott Todd Howard becoming the most popular young werewolf at his High School College, using his new powers to win at Basketball Boxing, fuck Pamela Wells some forgettable skank, get harassed by a bully named Mick some forgettable dude with sunglasses as well as the Vice Principal Dean, but ultimately deciding to put his hairy alter-ego aside to win the Basketball Boxing championship and the heart of his true love, Boof some forgettable chick with glasses.

"Forgettable" is the operative word here.  As evidenced above, Teen Wolf Too retains the blueprint of the original movie, but substitutes most of the individual nuts and bolts with inferior knockoffs.  Likewise, plot elements that were connected in a (relatively) clean and logical sense in the first film are here either nonexistent or incredibly weak.  It's as if they took apart the first film and forgot how to put it back together properly. (Oh, wait, no, that's exactly what happened.)

In this sense, Teen Wolf Too is the example of how to remake a smash movie in all the wrong ways.  How many ways you ask?

I DUNNO, IT'S THE INTERNET, LET'S MAKE ANOTHER FUCKING LIST!!!

I was thinking that Google Image Search would never give me a funny image to work with when I searched "list", but then this gem came along.  "HEY GIRL, WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR LEGS???  LOOK OUT, YOU'RE STEPPING ON YOUR OWN LIST!  YOU'RE GONNA SMUDGE THE INK!!!"

Great Chankery Stankery's list of boring, nice things to say before tearing in; aka Parts of Teen Wolf Too that Don't Suck Doggie Dong

1. The Acting

While there are some lackluster performances here and there, Teen Wolf Too's problems are not in the casting.  Weeeeell, I take that back, some of my biggest problems with this movie are due to the casting.  

What I'm trying to say is that, even with the casting choices I don't like, all of the principal actors do professional work.  The only downside to this is the fact that there's no laughably bad performances either.  Le sigh, c'est la vie, croissant, etc...  

2. Chubbs and Mr. Howard Return

Well at least two of the actors from the original Teen Wolf had nothing better going on had the class to show up for the second outing.  And boy are they milking this rapidly-dying cash cow for all the work they can get putting on the performances of their careers.

Jeez guys, why so serious?

While Mr. Howard is in this film for no real credible reason (Like his cousin Scott, Todd has an awkward case of "unexplained parental absence syndrome", but times two [or should I say 'too'?]), he at least reminds us that this movie is supposed to be in the same universe as the first one.

And Chubbs, well he actually comes out ahead, getting most of the film's slapstick routines and 100% of the fat jokes.  You could dare well say that Chubbs gets Mr. Howard's screen time from the first movie, and vice versa.  You go Chubby, go shake that Pee Wee movie money-maker.

3. Fuck, It's Still an 80's Movie

If I haven't said it before, I fucking LOVE the 80's.  It's nigh-impossible for me to hate something with every fiber of my being if it's also associated with the decade of my childhood.  So even excrement like Teen Wolf Too has at least that going for it.  

Plus, this gives me an opportunity to discuss the difference between early and late 1980's culture.  Teen Wolf Regular was an early 1980's movie, a time where the trends of the 1970's still clung to fragile life, and before the worst crimes of culture and fashion in the history of mankind were committed.  

I never watched Dallas, but... well, uh, apparently this is the cast of Dallas.  At least that's what the file name said.

And speaking of such crimes, the late 1980's was the tackier half of the decade, what with its eye-searing color schemes of red convertibles, aqua blue men's suits, and snow-white cocaine.  When people think of the 80's, they're usually thinking of the late 80's.  

To compare the Teen Wolves is to compare the two halves of the 1980's.  Whereas Teen Wolf Original is small-town and middle class, Teen Wolf Too takes five lines of fine-cut pure Colombian late 1980's to the face.  Fuck, the werewolf is just fucking literally given a red convertible and an aqua blue sports coat.    

Plus, though you can't tell in this lighting, but there is SO much coke trapped in that fur.    Shit soaks up dust like a chalkboard eraser.  

Most importantly, at least in this writer's opinion, is the fact that Teen Wolf Too employs one of my favorite staples of 80's flicks: The Montage.  

A Sports Montage?  I give this a big "Fuck Yeah!", but still, it's a pretty common 80's feat.  I wonder if this movie can take its montages to the next level...

OH, THAT'S RIGHT, THIS MOVIE FEATURES A RARE VINTAGE 1980's STUDYING/FUCKING GIRLFRIEND/STUDYING AGAIN MONTAGE!  

Wow, maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I've been too hard on this movie...  I forgot what I hated about it in the fir...

Stiles?  (Stuart Fratkin)?  Who's (Stuart Fratkin)?  Wait, is this... (Stuart... is he playing... Stiles?  

Somebody who isn't Jerry Levine is playing MY Stiles?  

Ohhhhh, bitches, it's all coming back.  Now I remember why this movie pisses me off.

In Part 2, I'm putting this puppy to sleep.  For the night.  To be woken up in the morning.  Because I'm not a puppy killer.  

But yeah, I'm gonna spit some mad shit next time.  Just ye wait.  

Keep It Stankin'

The Life Vitriolic; or "Shit I Hate That's Also Gotta Stop, Part I"

[NOTE: I've gotten dozens of imaginary e-mails angrily demanding to know why I didn't acknowledge that storm we had the week before the election, the people whose homes were destroyed, and why I didn't urge everybody to donate their plasma or urine or whatever.  

To them I say: 'You need moi to tell you about that shit? Because that would truly shatter my penis, and most likely my balls as well.  Like literally.  Seriously, tell me that I am your source of information and morality, and my genitals will explode into a trillion crystalline shards.  It would be like my cock was Samuel L. Jackson's character in Unbreakable.  That shit would look like the end of The Dark Crystal all over my nuts.  In short, spare me a full dick defragmentation and please look to me as neither your source of news nor your ethical arbiter.']

They call my wang... MISTER GLASS!

Now on with the article.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Weeeellll, I hates me some stuff.  Whole lotta stuff.  But not all the stuff I hate can really be gotten rid of, nor would I want to if I could.

There are some things I hate, but the world needs, like rain, or bees:

Even Batman doesn't fuck with bees, yo.

There are some things I hate, but love to hate, like reality television, or The Family Circus:

Search "Worst Family Circus" on Google Image Search, and this is #1.  I dunno though, they're all the worst to me.

But then, THEN, comes the real putrificence of life, those things which I both hate and need to be annihilated.

So here's some shit.

Shit I hate.

Shit that's gotta stop:

FIRST SHIT THAT NEEDS TO STOP: Whatever the fuck the Guinness Book of World Records devolved into

Exhibit A: The 1986 Guinness Book of World Records.  An essential piece of my childhood, filled with pages upon pages of stats and facts.  And its cover always bore a seemly countenance of both class and worldly grandeur:

If you sit back and squint a little, it looks kinda like an early Choose Your Own Adventure book cover, doesn't it?

This version of the book was a neat little paperback, and its pages looked like this:

Oh My, what dignity, what composure, what elegance in record keeping.  Truly a book of gentleman and kings alike.  

Informative.

Sophisticated.

Deeelightful.

This, THIS was a book.  A scholarly, Arthurian tome, well worth treasuring one's whole life long.

But Camelot was not to survive, it seems.


Exhibit B: The modern GBOWR (Which I'll now refer to as "Juhbower").  They can call it "Guinness World Records" all they fucking like, it's still Juhbower to me.  Let's see what the cover can tell us, eh?

Oh, that's another thing I fucking hate.  Why the fuck do people have to label shit for next year?  It's clearly not 2013 yet.  Not one iota of this book was written in the year 2013.  Fucking absurd.  Oh, and car dealers are even worse: "But ohhhh no, herp a derp, that's a 2013 Mazda, yessirree.  IT'S FROM THE GODDAMN FUTURE!"  ... FUUUUUUUCK!

Ok, you can't really tell from this pic alone, but this fucker is yearbook sized.  And now, instead of a mosaic of random Round-The-World-In-80-Days-type shit (which, if I didn't properly emphasize before, is fucking awesome), we get... bubbles?  Because when I think of world records, one thinks of bubbles, right?

Well, ok, don't judge a book by its cover, they say.  But something gives me the creeping feeling that Guinness may have sold out.  Let's take a look inside the modern Juhbower:

When I do a hate list for my future Video Game blog, I can almost guarantee you that Halo will be #1.  

Pictured: Apparently Conventions deserved two pages of their own?  Ohfuckpleasesomebodychainsawmyeyesout.

WHAT THE HELL GUINNESS?

WHEN THE FUCK DID YOU TURN YOUR WONDERFUL BOOK OF DIVERSE STATISTICS INTO A GIANT MAGAZINE?

WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS?!?!

I'm going to pretend that I didn't look up the answers to these questions (a. They're assholes. b. around the year 2000 c. Currently the assholes in charge of this shit are called Ripley Entertainment), and instead focus on what is so very WRONG with these pictures.

Before I get into the inherent Neo-Nerdiness of the two pages presented above, let's talk about what's not here: very goddamn many statistics.  Sure, that first page has a bunch of numbers shoved up in the corner like a naughty child, but then you have Master Chief chilling in the opposite corner taking up twice as much space.  In the Juhbower of my childhood, the pictures were of a modest size and interspersed modestly, so as to leave most of the space for, uh, you know, THE WORLD FUCKING RECORDS! 

So now that we've established that the current Dark Lords of Juhbower prefer giant pictures of space marines to actual information, I've also discovered that they've actually removed a large number of their statistics, not just from the book, but from the website as well.  Sometimes it was for ethical reasons (apparently listing the world's largest pet Fish led to a bunch of morons overfeeding their animals, for example), but I have a feeling a lot of the current omissions are because the people running the book are a pack of fucking mouth-breathing idiots who didn't want to do the work of keeping track of gentlemanly records like Polo and Fencing and Chess and Squash.  Philistines.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the book is turning away from the kind of records it used to hold.  The book used to record statistics of great feats and flukes of nature and man - the tallest buildings, the tiniest people, the fattest twins.  Things you couldn't replicate, at least not without tremendous wealth or effort, and sometimes not even then.

Now?  Now Guinness is in the business of self-promotion.  Instead of recording actual world marvels, they focus on recording and promoting new and more arbitrary human feats.  Want to set a record for the number of marbles one can hold in one's nasal cavity?  Go for it!  Wanna set the record for the high score of Pac Man while playing only with your dick tied in a double sheepshank around the joystick?  And then go and set a new, wholly independent record for the same thing, only now with a stevedore's knot?  The sky's the limit, baby!

In my day, the Juhbower was an adult book that appealed to kids, and rightly so.  It was a book that contained the world's marvelous extremes without stooping down to patronize its younger readers with flashy pictures and holographic covers.  And that was what made it great.  It was a book that called us away from childhood fantasy into the world of concrete facts and figures, which is not, as some may bemoan, a bad thing, because facts can often free us from other people's lies and idiocy.  Once I know that Robert Wadlow was the world's tallest man at 8' 3", nobody can bullshit me with stories about his 9-foot-tall brother who's going to beat me up if I don't hand over my Game Boy... at least not again.

I wanted to break up the wall of text, so here's the fifth picture to come up when I searched "gameboy stolen" on Google Image Search.  Yeah, I don't get it either.  Maybe the cousin took it?  Or was it that dastardly Grandpa?

This present version of Juhbower, however, leads not children into the world of men, but children into the present world of man-children.  By enshrining arbitrarily narrow feats that can be accomplished by anybody with enough ingenuity to make up some stupid new kind of record, and then putting them in a big glossy Teen-Beat-esque book, you only encourage more people to go out and make up more arbitrary, stupid shit so that they too can appear somewhere in your sellout book.

This shit, man, this shit has got to stop.  Records should be about framing the world, seeing its extremes, its limits, in order to get a better grasp of the differences in the world between fantasy and reality.  Guinness, get out of the game of making up bullshit accomplishments for dumbfucks to aim for.  Return to paperback, get rid of the gloss and the graphic design, and give me back my wondrous gooey statistics that I so beloved!

Or else... I'll have to set the fucking record for complaint blogs written about Juhbower.  Let's see how you like giving me that prize, heheh.


SECOND SHIT THAT NEEDS TO STOP: Tag questions on the News

NEWS!

How many times are you watching the news when, right before a commercial break, you hear:

"Up next, what new fad is killing local teens?"

or

"Up next, what city has just been revealed to have a full-scale Ebola outbreak?"

or

"Up next, what neighborhood do the police think the Evening Strangler is going to strike next?"

NO.

NO NO NO.

I know, they're trying to keep us watching over the commercial break, and giving us more information before the break would mean that people might change the channel.  I get that.

According to Google Image Search, also NEWS!

But guess what, fucking nightly news, I don't give a shit.  If this information that you have is actually important, as you claim it is, THEN JUST GIVE IT TO ME ALREADY!  MAYBE I'M IN A HURRY! MAYBE I HAVE A TEN MINUTE SHIT I'M ABOUT TO TAKE AND SO I'M GONNA MISS YOUR IMPORTANT INFORMATION UNLESS I HOLD IT IN FOR THREE MINUTES UNTIL YOU COME BACK!

NEWWWWWWWWSSSSSS BITCHES!!!!!

NO, this shit has got to stop.  If you are talking about life-and-death shit, you do NOT ask me to wait three minutes to find out what it is, when instead you can give me a one-sentence summary immediately.  What we need now is those questions turned into answers.

For example, let me rewrite the questions above for how they would appear in my newscast:

"Up Next, the razor-bladed Yo-Yo fad claims another teenage life."

"Up Next, your city has a full-scale Ebola outbreak."

"Up Next, your neighborhood is where the police think the Evening Strangler will strike next."

And you know what?  I bet that if the local news took on my advice, their ratings would skyrocket.  Oh wait, no, I'm sorry, the news is still 99.99999% garbage and lies and is in perpetual moral and journalistic decline.

Fuck them all.  

Except for you, Rachel Maddow.  You're cool.

[Also, no, I'm not going to discuss the election, save to say that I wrote in Ernest Goes to Camp for President.  Not Jim Varney, mind you; I know he's dead.  I voted specifically for my VHS copy of the movie.  Fuck the DVD.]

Keep It Stankin'