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'

Shamrocktober Sky, Part 3: The Leprechaunining(ining)

(In our previous episode, I finally arrived at the Festivale of Nyckbeards, and began my intensive get-drunk-the-fuck-up regimen.)

A beer in each hand, my arms pumping up and down like a toy robot, I chugged my way through the thronging swarm.  My awesomeness and charisma increased by leaps and bounds with each mouthful of frothy ale.  My inner Renaissance Man roared awake with a mighty belch.

This isn't me, but add an extra mug in each hand and some more Henry VIII-esque paunch, and you'd be close.  

Once my Renaissance Powers awoke, and my first sextuplet of beers had been devoured, I heard the dulcet tones of weapons being thrown.  Of course!  Now that I was a man of the 1500's, I had to prove myself in feats of combat!  Nearby, I espied a gentleman selling the opportunity to fling his fine sets of knives and axes for a modest sum.

"GOOOD YON SIRRAH!", I belted in my finest Renaissance voice, "I DO WISHETH TO THROW YON CUTLERY!  HERE ARE MY DUCATS!" With great straining against the tightness of my plump hand in my pocket, I pulled out my wad of pocket change (which I sometimes call "Mt. Chingy") and scattered it across the vendor's booth.

"HOWE MANYE THROWS WILL THESE DOUBLOONS GET ME, COXCOMB?", I barked, spreading out my change as much as possible, so that the vendor might see the true breadth of my wealth and status.

"Sorry sir, cash only", the fearful vendor replied, shivering in fear of my manliness. "And you'll need to pick up that change," it squeaked timidly.  "Now, please."

"ZOUNDS AND MALDICTIONS UPON YE PAPER MONEY!  TIS' 1568, AND SCRAP MAKES NO REPLACEMENT FOR PENCE!", I masculinely shrieked.  "BESIDES, SIRRAH, I HAVE SAVED THAT MONEY FOR MEAD AND WENCHES!"

"Well then, you can't throw these kni-"

"WHAT?  THESE KNIVES?" I said as I held before him the three throwing knives that he had laid at the counter when I had walked up.  The ribald fool had clearly been fooled by my throw-coins-down-as-a-distraction trick, and I took the opportunity to snatch up my prize.  Cash or no cash, I would die before I failed to demonstrate my martial prowess.

Before the stunned vendor had a chance to make a feeble attempt at recovering his knives, I reared back my throwing arm, all three dagger blades in hand, and with a mighty "HWAAAAAAARGGHH!", I threw them toward the nearest target.

I blinked.  When my eyes opened, I gazed again upon the target.

Nothing.  Not a single knife hit.  No knives even close to the target.

Astounded, I turned around to see a horrified crowd running from the stand as a knife flew down to the ground and landed blade-down right before my feet.

I looked about, horrified.

What had I done?

WHAT HAD I DONE?

How did I fail to see that what I had thought was a common vendor was in truth an evil wizard?  How could I have not expected any skilled wizard to put a teleportation rune on their weapons, in case they are wielded by one too skilled in their use?

"Security!", chirped the vendor/mage, "This guy's drunk!", he said, pointing at me.

"HOW DID YOU KNOW I WAS DRUNK?", I roared.  "THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A DETECT DRUNK SPELL!  YOU'RE NOT A WIZARD!  YOU'RE NOT A WIZARRRRRD AT ALLLLLLL!!!"

I spoke the truth.  This vendor wasn't a wizard after all.  There's only one kind of creature that can detect drunkenness, but it would be the wrong time of year...

My dizzied mind raced faster, unhindered by the repeated cries of "Doctor! Medic!" from somewhere in the crowd.  Possibility after possibility played out within the supercomputer that is my mind.  That's when it hit me like a diamond shamrock through the skull:

I wonder if shutterstock will mind if I use their watermarked photo.  Actually, no I don't.    

The vendor was a Leprechaun, and Leprechauns are the only creatures that can detect drunkenness in humans - That's what brings them out on St. Patrick's Day - to beat up drunk people and steal their shoes.  This is known, Khalesi.

But now, times are changing, and with the advent of the Ocktoberfests and the Renaissance Fairs, the Leprechauns were finding new hunting grounds in the drunken masses of the fall, which means the entire month of October was now a target.

It was all so clear now.  Leprechauns rarely intruded upon October, and even then, only on Halloween.  But this?  This was a full-scale invasion.

I gasped.  

A nightmarish hellscape opened in my mind:

                                SHAMROCKTOBER                        

I saw before me my neighborhood, but transformed.  All manner of horror had been inflicted upon the spookiest of seasons, not the worst of which included:

- Green Jack O'Lanterns, which are now called Finnegan O'Sheas.

- All costumes are Leprechaun costumes, but there are no sexy Leprechaun costumes for the ladies, just the ones that go from upper neck to ankle.

- Instead of doling out candy, adults pour Guiness and Jameson into children's buckets.  This becomes known as the new Shamrock shake.  (Also, the old Shamrock shake dies because of this.)

- Instead of Haunted Forests, thrill-seekers of all ages go to regular forests to be assaulted from the shadows by heavily drunken teenagers.  (For some reason the thought of this made me semi-chubs.)

- The Monster Mash is replaced by "Sunday Bloody Sunday" on all radio stations.  Likewise, Thriller is replaced by the rap from the end of "Leprechaun in the Hood."

Teh horarr.  Teh horarr.

The terror was mind-shattering, that world of October verdancy.  I screamed, and could take no more.

As reality came rushing back to me, I realized that I was now in the arms of a pair of not-so-festively-garbed security guards, or as I call them, Leprechaun collaborators.  Though they were dragging me out of the park, that didn't mean that I couldn't warn the common folk.

"SHAMROCKTOBER IS COMING!!!  SHAMMMMROCKKTOBER IS COMING!!!!  WHEN MARCH SEVENTEENTH MEETS OCTOBER THIRTYFIRST, ALL SHALL CRUMBLE!!!"

I don't know who heard me.  I don't even know if they believed me.  And if they believed me, I have no idea of whether they cared or not.  But I do know that this Halloween was an orange one, like it should be, which makes me think that maybe, just maybe, I made enough of a difference to stop those Leprechauns.  Well, for this year anyway.

I'll be here, though, at the ready, making sure that America never knows a Shamrocktober Sky.

Oh, also, I spent the rest of the month in jail on manslaughter charges.

Keep it Stankin'

Shamrocktober Sky, Part 2: Ye Olde Voyage to Ye Neckbeard Gathering

(As continued from part 1, which should really be listed before this article, not after, but I'm a computer illiterate who doesn't know how to change such things, much like my underwear, socks, and my sole online password from the 1990's.)

Having thus endured the complete and total collapse of my baseball gland, and recovered thanks to a heavy dose of often-hackneyed 90's Space Station Soap Opery, I found my way to the Renaissance Festival.  

But... it was no simple journey, youngling.  For ye see, to delight in the indulgences of the old world, ye must pass many a frightful trial.  I will recount these for ye, should ye be of ye curiositye:

Ye.

CHALLANGE THA FARST - THE DRIVE OF SLOTH: 

Given the rustic quaintitude of the Renn Faire, it's only proper that it exist in the middle of fucking nowhere in mungcock particular.  The journey would be long; the terrain, treacherous in the extreme.  My steed - a Taurus branded by the Fords, birthed in the year of 1993 - awaited me eagerly as I took its worn leather wheel, swept several layers of fossilized Popeye's cartons from the dashboard (also, I got to lick the bonus grease!), and repeatedly turned the key until some whimpering resembling the sound of an engine could be heard.  

On the road again I was, mmm yes.  

I'm a defensive driver, which is why I drive in the left lane at exactly four miles below the speed limit, right side tires on top of the line, with my right blinker on so that nobody tries to come around me.  It's like my Dad always told me when I was learning to drive - "Getting passed is getting splattered." he would say.  To maintain a safe speed, I often slow myself down by driving in a squiggle.  The only drawback to this method is that all the freaks with death wishes on the road seem to take umbrage at my vehicular lifestyle choice, and say and do mean things to me, like "I hope you die, asshat." and shoot live rounds at me.  

I give thumbs up so people know I appreciate their judgements and feelings, even if they differ from my own!  

While this day was no exception, I managed to survive the drive with two of my windows intact, and only three gunshots having grazed my body.  But then, THEN, that's when the real challenge began:

With only two-way roads leading into and out of the Fest, there was a line of cars longer than I would ever wish my dick was (because having a two-mile-long dick would suuuuuuck.)  My mental fortitude began to wane.  It was then that I thought back to my recovery, back to what that noble crew on Deep Space Nine taught me.  I thought back to this one episode where Quark's Mom got naked because Quark's brother Rom asked her to.  This thought calmed me, and helped me to keep a straight head throughout the wait.  

Oh Moogie...

After what must have been the 10000th replay of an aging Ferengi woman stripping naked gently rollick through my skull, I blinked, and became aware of my arrival.  I... I could park!  

The first trial was over.  I collected 20,000 bonus points, enjoyed a brief celebratory cutscene, and proceeded to the next level on foot.  

CHELLINGE DURR SUKOND - FUCKING WALKING IN A FUCKING CAR FOREST:

Although I had parked, I was nowhere near the entrance to the fair.  Before my lay a woeful obstacle course of parked cars, and even worse, gentle uphill inclines.  Still, I perservered.  Sweating under the sweltering early fall sun, I dragged my now-aching feet across grass and gravel towards the ticket gate. It was at that point I encountered the fence:

This was no ordinary fence, it was... ok, well it was an ordinary fence.  But I HATE fences.  Keepin' me off other people's property, making me climb them and tearing massive holes in the crotches of all my favorite sweat pants, failing to contain all those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park... what's not to fucking hate about fences?  Nothing, that's what's not not to fucking hate about fences.  

So there I was, with a long fence between me and my beloved Renne Fairee.  Like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, I had a Choose My Own Adventure before me.  I could:

Turn to Page 15 if you want to attempt to climb over the fence,

Turn to Page 45 if you want to go around the fence, 

Peeking ahead to page 45, I read that going around the fence would somehow manage to get me killed by a large man cosplaying as a Gelfling from the Dark Crystal.  With this in mind, I instead wisely opted to mount a expedition up the fence.  

After much grunting and struggling, and only a little tearing of the crotch of my sweat pants, I managed to get on top of the fence.  With a great deal more grunting, struggling, and some significant tearing of my sweat pants clean across the crotch from buckle to buttock (along with a little bit of peeing myself), I slowly managed my way down the other side.  

With Mount Fence behind me, I stumbled onward to the ticket gate, where, in a seeming good turn of fortune, I purchased yon tickete of admisseones for ye humblye fee.  

Tryumphaynt, I walked througheth the gates and ynto the Faire.  One last tryal awaited me, and t'would be the hardest and most rewarding task of yem all.  

CHULLUNGLE PA DIRD - THE TRIAL OF WAITING IN A LINE FOR BOOZE:

T'was a greate pleasure to be at the Faire, to behold the nerds, the geeks, the rednecks, the neckbeards, and rarest of all, the Atlantic Speckled Ginger Redneckbeard, which are always hard to photograph from any but the most extreme distances.  

However, as delightful as it was to stare at the pageantry and the plentiful bosoms made possible by the extreme smooshage of female abdomens, I had a thirst that had to be quenched.  Not just a thirst, but a thyrst, the kind that takes ahold of you at the Renn Faire and never lets go.  

I needed alcohyle.  There was no purpose going without it.  

To my yon olde surpryse, Y was not the only one who had sych an ydea.  Vast lynes stretched before me.  I exaymined (what's that?  Stop it with the 'y's?  Awww...) each with a keen eye.   Some moved faster than others, others were too full of wooden-sword-wielding teenagers for me to feel safe.  After traversing the full breadth of the Faire, I found a line.  

A line...

A LINE!

Memories of the leadup to the parking lot came rushing back to me, and I became engulfed in a terrible panic.  Thoughts of Quark's naked mother did nothing.  In desperation, I focused my mental energy on the line itself.  

"Speed up." I thought vehemently, "SPEEEED THE FUCK UP!"  

To my amazement, my psychic outburst worked!  Except, instead of speeding up my line, it sped up every line except my own.  The bartender for my line writhed in pain, as time warped and slowed about her.  People around me began to gag and vomit, as the gravometric distortions wreaked havoc on their sense of time and balance.  

An uninterrupted stream of vomit across my chest awoke me from my distress.  Realizing my thirst was driving me mad, and distorting the time-space continuum was not going to help, I refocused my mind, and thought of the only thing more calming than Moogie.  Something I only think about in the most dire of straits.  

I thought of the time Quark was a woman and flashed his new tits:

What, you thought that list from Part 1 was made up?  NOPE.

A magical Renn Faire peace passed over me, and once again, before I knew it, I was at the front of the line, purchasing two Ocktoberfest ales, standing in line again, purchasing two more, and then chugging all four beers in a row.  

At last, the Renaissance Faire had begun...

...TO BAH CONCLUDAD!

Keep it Stankin'

Shamrocktober Sky, Part 1: The Return from Durp Space

As an internet writer of a piddling blog, I can be accused of many of the sins of internet bloggers who specialize in piddling.  I can, for example, be accused of making more and more infrequent posts.  I can be accused of making less interesting and more slapdash attempts at literary amusement.  I can be accused of loathsome sloth, as many of my fellow neckbeards so often are.

I could be accused of these things.  But such accusations would be false...

BECAUSE I BLAME OCTOBER!

Nestled as I am on the American East Coast, October is the last of the "Good Months" before the all-out ball-stomping suckaducksdongfest that are November, December, January, and that despicable old schoolmarm of a month, Febu-fuck-its-cold-and-sucks-and-if-im-single-i-get-painfully-reminded-of-being-single-and-if-im-seeing-somebody-i-have-to-do-a-bunch-of-fancy-shit-on-a-weeknight-and-id-rather-not-ary.  October is my final huzzah.  

In other words, I had shit going on.  Like what, you ask?

I'm a big baseball fan, so when my two regional teams, the Nationals and the Orioles, both got into the playoffs, I was J-ing my P's like a B on a Z.  October Baseball, at long last, was home again...

WELL GUESS HOW THAT WENT???

Lookeemee!  I didn't want to use the headsplosion from Scanners again, so instead I made this lovely piece of art!  

After the MLB became dead to me for yet another year, I blasted some "Long December" by Counting Crows on repeat, threw my tear-and-piss-and-shit-stained pants back in my dresser, and dragged my headsploded self into bed.  The resulting torpor lasted a week, and when I awoke, the world reeked of ash and sulfur.  It was at this point that I remembered that I live next to a sulfur factory, which made my abysmal melancholy only worse.  I had to seek comfort whilst I recuperated.  Which brings me to...

ERR MER GERRRD U GERRS!!!!  AH DEED ERRR PHURTURRSHURP!!!

Shhchtar Trek: Deep Schpace Nine is a show that you might imagine, given my previous articles, that I watched as a blossoming young nerd.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Simpsons took precedent, because this was the 90's, when the Simpsons was not just good, but as immaculate as The  Goose that shat crystal iPads and laid golden snowglobes filled with shimmering visions of really hot porn.  

With the advent of that wonderful American indulgence that is Netflix, I learned of the wonders and perils of DS9.  Still reeling and near-comatose from the dual losses of my beloved Nats and O's, I mustered just enough strength to nudge the buttons on my Wii remote and start the first episode.  With that, my energy was spent, and my body entered a long regenerative phase, much like Odo, one of the show's gooey shapeshifting protagonists.  And speaking of gooey, that's sure what my bed was once I was done watching all seven seasons in a row!  

And what a nougaty treat 'twas!  There were so many moments that I would unironically call "classic", but here are my top six:

1. The crew has to hopscotch for their lives!

2. Dr. Bashir falls in love with a chick in a future-wheelchair, and everybody learns a little something about respecting those with disabilities.  Also, they turn off the gravity and that bitch goes FLYIN!  

3. Lwaxana Troi visits the station and inadvertently causes everybody to make out.

4. During a picnic, O'Brien's young daughter falls into one of those pesky, run-of-the-mill time vortexes that turns girls into cavewomen.

5. Jake gets seduced by a creativity vampire and Lwaxana Troi shows up pregnant. 

6. Quark has to get a sex change because he gave his mother a heart attack, and then flashes his new tits at some dudes.  

After a solid week of watching DS9, and another solid week of digging/chewing/clawing my way out of the fetid slime cocoon that my bed had become, I was a new man.  With baseball purged from my mind, I had to breathe fresh air again.  Wear a harlequin costume again.  Stare at becleavaged women dressed as harlots of yore again.  Craft bone armor out of discarded turkey legs again.  

Off I went to live at the Renaissance Faire.  

As hard to believe as it is, Google Image Search turns up nothing funny when you search "Renaissance Fair", so, uh, yeah, I just picked one.  

TO BAH CONTAHNUAHED!

Keep It Stankin'

Magical Miscellany Tour

Much like a clip show episode of your favorite sitcom, I am about to employ one of the great blog cop-outs.  I'm not going to focus on just one vitriolic rant this time.  Naw, mothuafuckas, today we gettin more random than character names from fantasy novels.  I'm doing three, count it bitch three, muthafuckin articles.  And why not?  Everybody loves it when the Simpsons or Futurama or Family Guy does it, so who am I to not imitate shamelessly?

Luz bughun:

   "Poopeye's" tries to win back its Olive Oyl

You may recall in one of my tirades of yore that I had imposed a hefty curse on Popeye's Fried Chicken for their insolent cancellation of their cubic-orgasm-inducing Confetti Sweet and Sour sauce.

You may recall the ultimatum I gave them, and the call to action I presented to you, my loyal legionette of readers.  I asked you to fart, and fart hard.  In a Popeye's.

Well, my thralls, it seems your farts came to great stankin' fruition.  For Popeye's has attempted to appease the beast that is my belly:

I stole this picture from some guy's food site.  Hopefully he won't come waddling after me.  

Now, at long last, the whole story has come to light.

It seems, after my Confetti sauce was "Taken" and I told those bastards in Louisiana about my "certain skills, skills that make people like me a nightmare for people who hate farts", it seems Popeye's had my precious Confetti sauce executed so that it could move some new sauces up the condiment mafia hierarchy.  These cups-o-usurpury are pictured above.  To me, they look a lot like party crashers.

The Party Crashers that took my Confetti.  The bastards.  

Revenge is demanded.

But first, I had to know.  What had they taken Sweet Confetti from me for?  Was their some future parking lot so glorious that my beloved had to be paved over?  In short, was this new shit any good?

Of the three new sauces, it was clear that the Sweet Heat sauce was the Rufio of this upstart gang, flagrantly posturing himself as the newly crowned heir to the Sweet and Sour throne.  I had to face him.  Taste him.  Feel him in my mouth.

So I returned to Popeye's, forswearing my oath before God and man, and once more gave up my well-earned money that I might sup of the piquant fried fowl.

Spicy dark meat drumstick in hand, I plunged crunchy chicken skin into the amber-brown goo.  With great trepidation I drew it to my beneckbearded maw.  And I bit in.  Also, I tasted and chewed a little as well.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand...

AAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNND...

Wha???

It was allllllriiiiiight.  Spicy, sure, but not quite sweet in the way my dear Confetti sauce was.  Better than any of Popeye's remaining sauces.  But by no stretch of the imagination anywhere near on par with my pweeeeecious.

Nice try Popeye's, but no cigar.  Not even a dirty Monica Lewinsky cigar covered in fire ants.  Your failure remains unatoned for.

The farting will continue.  The farts will permeate the Popeye's.  They will permeate the chicken.  Then, the farts will permeate you.

Soon, only the fart will remain.

PNC'S XYLOPHONE TORTURE MUST CEASE!

Ok, this one's gonna be quick, but really, I had to say it:

WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE FUCKING PNC ADS AND THAT FUCKING XYLOPHONE TUNE?

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're probably not in an area where PNC bank advertises.  At any point, PNC is a probably evil bank (because hey, aren't they all nowadays, amiriteguyzlol?) that features ads with this uber-annoying xylophone tune.  For your sake, I won't repost it here, but you most likely know what I'm talking about.

Take a moment to imagine that song now, or just watch tv for 20 minutes until it comes on:

Sooo, how super-annoyed did you get?  What's that?  All?  All the super-annoyed?  Well so did I!

Isn't it amazing, how such an innocuous little song can stick like chewing gum in the driver-seat doorlock to your mind?  HOW DOES IT DO THAT?  IN WORDS IT DOESN'T SEEM SO BAD:

DOO-DOO-DOO-DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO
DOO-DOO-DOO-DAH-DOO--DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO

And yet, as I write this, my eardrums are callousing over in an attempt to never hear that song again.  But it's too late, it's stuck in my soul on infinite loop.

Please, somebody out there, kill this thing, before it spreads to other worlds.

From the "Things I don't get, but do, but hate anyway" Files: Bathroom Attendants

As you probably have come to imagine from my previous posts, after my many years of being a swingin', sophisticated gentleman, I've become a fixture at all the hottest hotspots my municipality has to offer.  The scene loves me, and I love the scene.  

Except for one fuuuucking thing... er, guy... this guy:

Well, not specifically this guy.  Just fuckers like him.  Which I suppose includes him anyway.

These fuckers are the reason why I clamp my urethra shut whenever I go clubbing.  I NEVER want to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men.  I ESPECIALLY DOUBLE EXTRA NEVER want to have to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men, and then expects a tip for it. 

A tip?  Really?  Even a homeless guy who tries to clean my Maserati's windows moves his fucking arm a bit.  You're telling me that you expect money for the operation of a simple cleansing-foam dispenser?

Oh, what's that?  A cigarette?  Candy, nuts?  Ah, well surely a tip is justified then, right?

BALLZNOSIR!  You know what that shit is?  It's a bribe, son, a straight bribe.  They expect you, like a fool, to go all "Nurp derp dis guy dun gabe me a little bit of soap urn sum peenuts, so i gibs him all mys monay."

And before you accuse me of being a classless ignoramus, let me tell you that I get it.  I get why bathroom attendants are there.  They're there to keep strippers from banging the clientele on the sink.  They're there to give mints to the guy who just threw up in the urinal.  They are classic sources of information, especially for spies and thugs and other such popular TV things.  So, I'm not saying they're useless - I'm just saying they're useless to me.  Which, if you know anything about me, means that they're useless period.

My breath is always fresh, I always keep tons of candy on me, and I always keep at least a carton of smokes on my person at all times, so I don't need your blood goodies.  I have my iPad and Kindle Fire to keep me informed of everything, so I don't need your vaunted information.  You know what else, Mr. I'm-Stupid-And-Obsolete?  I also rock the hand sanitizer.  So I don't even need YOUR FUCKING SOAP!

Hell, I don't even care if I did have the hand sanitizer!  You could dip my hands in a Chinese river, and I wouldn't take your damn soap.  I don't need you, and I obstinately wish you gone.

So?  What are you waiting for, Push-pump the Soapy Candy Cig Man?

GET.

OUT.

Keep It Stankin'

Word Avoision, First Sequence

To write means to be a man of words.  To be a man of words, however, requires spending years upon years learning metric Piss-Tons (TM) of words.  And sadly, not all of these words are good, fun, or even useful.  Many a writer squeals in delight at listing and lambasting those strings of syllables that offend them.

Sadly, I too am such a writer.  Despite my many attempts to "come original", there are certain threads of discourse in the world of scribblery that I find myself inextricably drawn to, like a Mothra to Monster Island.  And should I be ashamed for veering toward the flock from time to time?  Am I so different, so special, so unique, that I cannot touch on a subject simply because somebody else beat me to the punch?  

Hellz no.  I too can bleed, defecate, urinate, blow my nose, and occasionally vomit, just like the rest of the common rabble of the blogosphere. (More on fucking "blogosphere" in a moment.)

In short, I really wanna talk about a few words I hate, so I'MS GUNNA!  

Without further ado, here are some sequences of letters that have successfully enraged me:

"Blogosphere"

It would take me a very long time to rattle off all of the Internet-era portmanteaus that I despise, but I would always start with "Blogosphere".  Deriving itself from the hideous word "blog", which in turn comes from the quasimodo that is "weblog", "Blogosphere" is clearly one of those terms that its inventor was smugly satisfied with.  

Why yes, I am a white man with nerd glasses who is currently doing something conspicuously similar to what this guy is doing.  The difference is that I don't like coffee and I'm a far better human being.

I often imagine travelling back in time to the moment of the word's inception, doubtlessly at a Starbucks or some other fetid hovel of caffeine junkies:

"Herp a durr, I can combine 'blog' and 'atmosphere' to make 'blogosphere'.  Blorp-a-do, look at how clever I am," crows the 30's-something hipster.  

"NRRRRRGGGG..." said I, trying desperately to fry his laptop with my mind, hopefully causing him to comically spill his latte onto his tragically tiny set of genitalia.  

"ARGGH!" says the hipster, as his MacBook spews flecks of electricity at his shaved yuppie face.  

"ARGGH!" he says again, as his coffee boils his crotch.  

"What an awful experience," says the hipster, "I should talk about it in the blogosphere!"

At this point in the fantasy my psychic abilities turn back in on myself, and I perform the world's first self-induced headsplosion.  The hipster, witnessing this, mentions it in passing on his blog.  

"Pamper"

Here's a few images that come up when I Google Image Searched "pamper".  Think of this as a photographic essay whose message is "the word 'pamper' is garbage and should be murdered."

Looking at these three images, you'll notice that the first two are cartoons of women enjoying spa treatments (and what's up both black chicks having to sit all the way to the right?  RrrrrrAY-cissst...).  

The third image is of a product that is specifically designed for babies to piss and shit in.  

Putting together these two motifs of spoiled women and infant feces, we can see what the word "pamper" really calls to mind - mud masks of baby crap and pedicured feet dipped in steamy urine.*

At least that's what I think of, and you should too, if you have any decency.  Which you probably don't.

* - If that sounded appealing to you, then, well, you should...  really???

"Preggers"

As long as we're talking about baby-related words, let's prescribe this one some birth-control.  Zing!

I shit you not, this is really the first image that comes up when you search "Preggers".  Google Image Search, I don't always say this, but Bravo.  

You notice how most words that deal with serious, life-changing things don't have cutesie synonyms associated with them?  We don't euphemize murder as "murdies", or call cancer "canci-cans".  We don't call menopause "the m-pizzles", or genocide "a bad case of the gennies."   

Now, I know pregnancy isn't usually considered a bad thing, but it is a serious thing.  Your life, your responsibilities, your EVERYTHING changes when a baby comes into the mix.  So why, WHY I ASK YOU, is a word like "preggers" bandied about in this day and age?  

Imagine, if you would, that you were a man with two girlfriends.  Being a cad, you don't wear protection, and by every fault of your own you inseminate both of your special ladyfriends on the same day.  A week or two later, Girlfriend #1 comes up to you:

"Dear, I'm pregnant!"

Not long after, Girlfriend #2 comes up to you:

"Honey, I'm preggers!" 

Now which of these two women sounds ready to actually raise a child?  Knowing nothing else, just that one of them used the word "pregnant" and the other one "preggers."  

Which one has just told you "Sweetie, a heavy but important responsibility has befallen us, and it's up to us to be adults and accept both the burdens and blessings that are about to enter our lives."?  

Which one has just told you "Babe, I have a baby growing inside me and that's totally awesome because I'll have unconditional love forever and now I won't be the odd-girl-out in my high school Preggers Club!  I don't see how the future will be anything but sunshine and ponies and funtime!"?

It is absolutely no coincidence that the spread of the plague that is "preggers" coincides with the rise of teen pregnancy in this country.  Therefore, if we want to curb this epidemic of mass stupidity, we need to correct teenage girls when they use this poison word.  Since I'm not "supposed" to advocate face-punching as an appropriate form of correction, I'm going back to my mainstay:

That's right.  Shove that stupid Bieber-loving hussy in the nearest closet, and then pump your wet farts in.

ALL YOUR FARTS. 

Keep it Stankin'