The History of Thanksgiving

I thought for today's blog entry, I would explore the mysterious and often neglected history of Thanksgiving; the best November turkey-based holiday south of Canada. 

The first Thanksgiving was celebrated 50,000 years ago in what is now known as Detroit (then known as The Incorruptible Garden) by the first Men: Adam, Prometheus, and Vandal Savage. Back then, there were no women, no fire, and no Green Lantern. Times were bleak. 

But there were plenty of turkeys. Turkeys had lived in peaceful societies for millennia, making great advancements in technology, medicine and the arts. But absolute power corrupts absolutely. Fueled by an insatiable desire for petroleum natural resources, gradually, tension rose between the two turkey superpowers until conflict finally erupted. In the wake of the 2nd Turkey Nuclear War, the fall-out from Uranium-based weaponry had obliterated 90% of the turkey population, leaving the remaining 10% mutated and in a state of regressed, primal fury. The plains teamed with roving gangs of the damned, not unlike 28 Days Later or Mad Max. Enter: the first men of Earth. 

For years they endured the ravages of sin embodied within the turkeys. Surely, they could do better at society than the previous masters of the Earth. So they silently laid out a plan. And one day the carried it into motion. 

They prayed to God.

Vandal Savage prayed for the power to destroy the turkeys. He was granted the sword Excalibur. And lo, did he lay waste to the turkey vermin. And yay, for 3 days and nights did Vandal Savage stab, slice, bludgeon, kick, bite and murder his way to glory for the Lord. 

Adam prayed for a woman. As God made a woman out a rib bone of Adams (a very tricky medical procedure known as Femora Scapula Alderonomy), Prometheus raced up Mt. McKinley and stole fire from a distracted, omnipotent God. 

When the dust had settled, they decided to celebrate. This was the dawn of a new era, and a feast was in order. And so was the first Thanksgiving. Vandal Savage provided the meat, Prometheus the fire on which to cook the meat, and Adam the woman for who should actually do all the cooking. They all sat and dined. When it was over they all gave thanks to God for the gifts that were bestowed upon them, except Prometheus since he had to steal his gift. 

A Fantabulous Voyage Through Christian Bale’s Brain

Chicks love Christian Bale. Like, REALLY love him. They would stab their best friend in the back and then the front, and then the back a few more times, just to lick him (not even in a sexual manner). The guy stars in some really choice movies like American Psycho and the new Batman movies, but I still don’t know why that automatically indoctrinates him into the pantheon of Totally Badass 20th Century Americans along side Bruce Lee and Evel Knievel. The two girls I was with last night were just as perplexed as I was.

“What?! Why wouldn’t he be a badass? He beat the shit out of his mom and sister.”

That’s more asshole than badass. Close but waaaaaay off.

“Common he’s totally amazing. He’s fucking Batman. Why do you hate him?”

Excellent question. Let’s find out, together, just what makes Christian Bale Christian Bale, what makes Christian Bale Batman, and finally what makes Christian Bale beat his family. Maybe I won’t hate him! To do this boys and girls, we will use our

IMAAAAAAAAAGIIIIIIINAAAAAAAATIIIOOOOONS…

and climb into a teeny tiny flying yellow submarine so we can travel through the head of the man who won Best Superhero in the super posh, exclusive and revered Spike TV Scream Awards!

Hold on tight, kiddies! This is going to be rough! We are heading up Mr. Bale’s nose on the first leg of our journey. We are going to his brain Egyptian Style, which first puts us in contact with his olphactory bulb. This is the part of his brain that identifies super expensive Hollywood cocaine. Once activated, it then sends a signal out to his penis telling it to get soft and a signal to his amygdala, triggering crying and family-hitting.

Toot toot! We are heading north! Up, up, up we go! There’s gold in them thar hills! Hee hee. Just kidding. I’m not really a late 19th century California gold prospector. I’m a neuroscientist tour guide inside Christina Bale’s Brain. Aaaaaaand here we are at the frontal lobe. This is the part that does all the logic processing and heavy thinking. This part is what made Christian decide staring in Reign of Fire and Equilibrium were good choices.

As we all know, Mr. Bale is a member of Greenpeace and has been a vegetarian since he was 6 when he came of age and read Charlotte’s Web. The years of not eating meat has caused severe neuronal atrophy across the brain. If you look out to the starboard side, you can see a very wide chasm. It’s like the Grand Canyon! It spans across the superior temporal gyrus from the temporal lobe to the parietal lobe. That’s where his Wernicke’s Area should be. This is a lot of fancy nerd-talk for “nigga don’t listen”.

Here we are at the hippocampus, the area responsible for memory acquisition. If you look over to that meter, it says he repeated the phrase “I… am Batman!” an astounding 13,755 times. Unfortunately, it also tells us that he said the phrase “A little guilt goes a long way” from the Machinist just 3 times.

Well, it looks like this is the end of our journey. We learned a lot and I suppose when all’s aid and done, Christian Bale is alright for a British person. OH! That’s right! Definitive proof! He CAN’T be a Totally Badass 20th Century American because he’s not a fucking American! Or a badass!

Now get the hell out of my submarine.

Trip Report: 5-Hour Energy

We’ve all heard the promise of 5 hours of energy without the crash. That’s because 5 hour energy contains vitamins, enzymes and amino acids (uh…enzymes are made up of amino acids…). And no sugar! But aside from sounding like complete bullshit, I decided to try some. I mean, they have celebrity endorsements from professional racecar drivers and football players, the crazed truckers and coke-headed murderers of the sports world, and they would never, ever, EVER lie to me just to make a profit. I am a man of science, so I handled this situation like a true blue scientist. Oh yeah, I put some sugar in my drink because it tastes like ass. Les do dis.

Ingestion
The makers make the comparison that this stuff is “a shot of energy”. It’s more like a double shot of bile. It was thicker than water, but it had this really gross oily consistency to it. I had to use an old cough medicine trick I used when I was a kid. You pour the shit in your mouth, and raise your tongue up so it’s just sitting there, basting your bottom teeth and probably stripping them of the outer layer of enamel. Grab a huge glass of water and chug. Chug like a champion. Finally grab your stomach and think of Sesame Street. Anything to keep from puking.

Hour 1
Not really feeling the power yet, but I do start to feel a bit goofy. By now the pangs in my stomach have quieted to a dull roar. I begin to notice weird things. Like, how loud your own heart beat sounds inside your head, or that moths flap their wings 108 times a minute when it’s 25 degrees Celsius, and 120 when it’s 26 degrees Celsius. I know because I counted. I kept a notepad with me where I wrote down all my thoughts. I apparently scribbled down something about the television “being lazy”.

Hour 2
Holy shit I am off! I’m like Super Mark. It was still the same me, just me x1000. I guess this stuff isn’t bullshit. Taking full advantage of my situation, I decided to go for a sprint to see how well I would perform. I don’t remember too many details from this part. All I remember is that I ran to the next county and back, wearing out the souls of my shoes in the process. Once my feet started to bleed considerably, I finished the rest of the run walking (running?) on my hands.

Hour 3
By now my trip has taken on an edge of anger and desperation. My dog is scared of me. I forget why, but I start screaming at him. I’m just screaming and screaming, until eventually I go hoarse and collapse right where I’m standing and I begin to weep uncontrollably. “What’s happening to me!?” I sob. I crawl through the halls on my hands and knees, punching through the walls and ripping out plumbing and electric cables. I’m searching for The Borrowers, the little gnomes who live in your walls and “borrow” things like a spool of thread or an old pocket watch. Those little bastards somehow stole my soul and I wanted to drink their blood in return.

Hour 4
I need more power! That was the answer! Halfway through a self sacrificing ritual to Satan for more power, I realized that power was in my reach the whole time. I just needed another shot of 5 hour energy! I jump up and run out the door, completely forgetting to put my shirt back on. That causes problems for me when I run into 7-ll. The guy at the counter is miffed. “Hey you! You no come in here like that! You no come in here like that!” I wonder if he noticed the blood all over my hands. I killed Jesus on the way over. He was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus or something. I just…sorta…walk up to him, you know? And just…grabbed his neck. And I’m just squeezing, and squeezing…he stops moving. And I start to cry. “You asshole…” I mutter. And I start punching and punching. Just really letting loose on him until finally I can’t recognize his face any more. I let out a piercing wail. The memory races through my head at speeds of 75,000 mph. Back in the moment, I grab a few bottles of energy, pop the caps and down them. I pause. My eyes slowly roll back. The rest of my body follows, and I pass out on the floor.

Hour 5
I’m not entirely sure what happens next. Just brief memories, glimpses of memories actually, of screams, metal bending and a feeling of jumping through the clouds. The first real clear memories I have are of me running through the desert. I’m 2000 miles away from any desert! How the fuck did I get there! I’m running from the United States Army. They really start to piss me off. They’re getting up all in my face with the 1st armored infantry. An M1 Abrams tank is staring me down. I grab the barrel and tie it into a bow. Take that, sucka! A helicopter opens fire on me, hitting my back with a few hundred rounds of machine gun fire. “FUUUUUCK!!!” I scream. I jump 70 feet in the air and punch it fucking hard. I really knock the shit off that dick! There’s no smoke. It crashes and erupts in flames. This goes on for a while until General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross makes a bold gesture and confronts me face to face. I pick him up and eat him whole like a Swedish Fish. Jennifer Connelly talks to me. “This has to end! Please! No more rage! I love you!” I eat her too.

All in all, 5-hour energy is pretty alright. I’d do it again.

Anonymous Letter to the Hot Girl I Work With, By Mark Reiss

Dear Hot Girl,

Thank you for being hot. You are such a welcome breath of fresh air in this stagnant dungeon of sad, middle aged boomers. They yell at me and are ugly. But you are hot and ignore me, which is infinitely better.

(Oh yeah, there’s like four hot girls who I work with, so I guess this letter applies to them all, plus the lone MILF in the office)

Stop scratching your butt when you walk by my desk. It triggers farts and I don’t like that. I don’t care if you are hot. No farting.

I fear for you. You probably know Tony, the guy who sits behind me. I don’t think he’s very stable. He is always muttering about “assholes” and “carbine”. I just want you to know that when he snaps (and he will), and goes on a murder rampage, stalking the halls and firing round after round of .347 hollow points at co-workers and bosses until he taken out by a hail of gunfire in a firefight between him and 75 federal marshals, well, I’ll probably be the first one killed since I’m like 4 feet away from him. BUT! If I do miraculously survive the first onslaught and manage to be by your side, I’m not going to protect you. Fuck. You better get out of my way. I’m not going to die just because your stupid ass decided to wear heels today.

We know nothing about each other, and that’s a shame. We should talk and get acquainted. Some of my passions are driving F1 racecars, winning various strong-man competitions, and lying. What’re yours?!

You’re always working so hard, running around getting files and doing whatever it is that you do. I feel bad for you. You should visit me! I’m never busy. Just sitting here, thinking…blogging. I bet I get paid more than you.

Oh and I’m looking for the cover image to a journal entry with stock number 41009. It’s not in the G-drive under PUBS/WRD/MKT/Graphics/Book Cover Copies/410/JPG and that shit needs to be in the system by tomorrow. So…can you just find it and submit it for me? Ktnx.

Luv ya always!

-Mark Reiss

The ABC's of Parties, Part 3

Really Bad Ideas
Let’s get something straight here. There’s a difference between a bad idea, and a really bad idea. Bad ideas are funny, reversible and should always be acted upon. Really bad ideas are funny too, but will totally fuck you over if they go awry. Someone is going to wind up pregnant, jailed, killed, or all 3 at the same time. Every really bad idea will cost someone at least $3,000. Don’t do them.

Scorpion Bowl
This one’s really cool, but you’ll need a coal miner’s cache of rum to pull it off. Essentially it’s a giant cocktail that everyone drinks out of, and it has a bunch of fruity pieces of nonsense floating around, plastic toys, and about 50 straws (even when there’s like, only 15 of you there). The bigger the better. The last time I made one it was out of one of those circular sleds you can buy at K-Mart, Wal-Mart, etc (we used to call them Flying Saucers). It held 7 gallons of liquid. Because it was so flimsy when filled, we had to weigh down the center with a giant statue of Fat Buddha. Then it was a handle of rum here, a handle of coconut rum there, a little bit of captain, more flavored rum, and then enough fruit juices to mask the taste. Garnish with floating pieces of oranges (some plastic frogs were chillaxing on them) and throw in some straws. Sit back and admire the handy work of/with a nice big, stiff drink.

Theme Parties
This is along the same lines as the Scorpion Bowl for garishness because it is so unnecessary, but once you make the rules official, adhere to them as if following them would get you into Heaven. Most themes involve something like costumes which is fine so long as your guests don’t half ass it. A guy wearing a bed sheet is not a costume unless he is deliberately going as a shitty guest. Drug parties would be considered a theme (which I guess would equate opium dens with Studio 54). Or you could revolve a party around an event. When the 2008 Vice Presidential debate was going on, some friends and I threw a party and turned it into a drinking game. Every time Palin said a buzz word like Wasilla, Joe Six Pack, Special Needs, every time she said something that if you could repeat it and make this grand, folksy “aw shucks” kind of arm swing, every time she took longer than 1 second to answer, you took a drink. We got wasted and that’s what’s important.

University Parties
It’s almost impossible to accurately describe the different kinds of parties you would find on campus, and they range from super shitty to orgasmic. Trying to lump them all under one insightful and funny banner is impossible for me to do, so I’ll just say this: if you went to college and could not find a single party you liked or even one to go to, you either went to the wrong college or you have no business being a member society. Period.

Very Fucked Up Guests
As I’ve been alluding to and encouraging, you’re guests should leave your party in a chemically altered state of mind from when they arrived. You’re only concerned with them not killing themselves, other guests or destroying something. Otherwise let ‘em go hog wild.

Wanderlust
Jesus Christ will this ever happen to you, especially if you’re on shrooms. Embrace it. It leads to a little something called “adventure” which leads to this thing called “good times”. Bring the gang. You guys can pretend you’re looking for buried treasure, or Dr. Livingston, or some sort of mythical beast, all while safe in your back yard. Especially if you’re on shrooms.

eX’s
Yeah, sorry buddy. This is never fun. They ALWAYS show up to the same party as you, don’t they? They are a heavier buzz kill than a hundred cops or discovering your parents’ sex tape. There’s only so much you can do. Girls usually opt for straight up ignoring their ex, flirting with some other guy, or getting really drunk and shitty abusive. All of which work pretty well. Guys aren’t supposed to have feelings, so when we discover them emerging at a party, we get the urge to drown them in Dutch ethanol. This creates a paint brush called Making an Ass of Myself which paints in many colors, all shit and puke colored. The only way to avoid this is to be best buds with the one running the party. Maybe they can bar your ex at the door. If not, then sorry. You are SOL my friend.

Youtube
I’m hesitant to include this, but it’d be stupid not to have an Ace in the hole in case things start to turn south. Don’t make this a focal point of the evening. Everyone’s got at least one video they know of that is sure to get people laughing, like that crazy hoodrat in Atlanta kirking out and rapping at an old lady*, the guy who built his own animatronic band and makes them sing shit like “Love in the Club” and “Me So Horny”**. Or the Onion News Network***.

*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NZtGz_7WI0
**http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5rnQaiFm_c&feature=related
***http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hyph_DZa_GQ

Zzzzzz
All good things must come to an end. Besides, your body needs time to repair itself after you treated it like a bitch for 30 non-stop hours. Any good host would let crash at their place their friends. Everyone’s too wasted to go home anyway. Stick them in the bathroom. That will make cleaning up the puddles of puke easy while closing off the stink to the rest of the house. Draw on your passed out friends’ faces (more dicks), but go easy. We all need our rest. Work in the morning is going to be Hell.

The ABC's of Parties, Part 2

Ice
This seems like a no-brainer but I have to include it because it’s important, it’s versatile, and I can’t think of another I word. Excluding shots, if you drink whiskey without ice cubes in your glass it is considered gauche if you’re over 26 (older people are supposed to have decorum, you hillbilly). Have you ever done an ice-luge? You need ice for that, duh. Vodka and ice isn’t just a good recipe for “naked time”. They also make great disinfectants and reduce swelling for the many open wounds your guests are sure to (and expected to) receive during the night. Otherwise it just isn’t officially a party

Jumping on the Bed
Seems like a bad idea now when you’re sober and reading this at work, but trust me when I say this is a sure-fire way to resuscitate a dying party. It’s all about doing what you’re not supposed to. You weren’t allowed when you were a kid because your parents, my parents, everyone’s parents, are tyrannical dicks. You can’t now because your downstairs neighbors have work at 7 in the morning. Fuck them. You don’t need them or their bullshit anymore. Party on.

King Cups
Everyone has their own favorite card drinking game. This one’s mine. The key is making sure everyone adheres to the rules, especially the ones you make up along the way (best rule: removing the word “drink” and all variations of it from the party’s lexicon. Otherwise…you drink!). Like your guests, the cup at the end needs to be filled with a variety of nasty things. Fill it with liquor, beer, wine, margarita mix, whatever. Fill it to the top. Be a dick. Cringe for the poor soul who has to pound it. And pray that it is not you.

Ladies Night
I read women’s magazines. They’re always like “Oh guys are so hard to figure out but we cracked the man-code in this month’s issue!” Uh, sorry to break it to you, but guys are not complicated. They are painfully simple minded. If you have to think about what a guy wants at all, you are thinking too much. Fact.

Women, on the other hand, are not simple. They are slightly more complex. If you think you can get away without cleaning up your place before a party…bad. That’s a bad, bad reader. BAD. I don’t want to make a whole bunch of overarching statements about the two sexes, but the bottom line is this: if you find a girl who is pretty, funny, crude, nice, witty, has good taste in everything, likes to pound drinks and commit petty crimes, yell for fun and is single, you fucking start calling her “wife” right away and you don’t stop until the day you die in a retirement facility in Boca Raton with her at your side sobbing “You are the only love of my life don’t leeeaaave me!” because girls like that are 1 in 7,000,000,000. Maybe she will show up to your party.

Music
I’m going to step on a lot of toes here, but I’ll try to proceed with caution. Don’t play any music you can freak dance to. Pro tip to girls: guys who dance like that with you are either huge assholes or gay. Neither ever get laid for it. And when girls dance with each other? Gavin McInnes said it best. I’ll paraphrase: “Um, what are you doing? For the last time, freaking is when you simulate fucking a girl doggy style. What are you going to do next? Imaginary pull out and cum on her back?”

Throw on whatever you want, and again, diversity is key, but a good rule of thumb is to play music people will want to sing along to. There’s just something about Bohemian Rhapsody that unites us all.

Nudity
If the orgy (in the Roman sense) is the ultimate party, then naked people are the ultimate partiers. The trick is to get the first girl naked. See, guys will get naked for a ton of different reasons ranging from the heat to “it’s naked penis time, whoops sorry, but this is when I always get naked deal with it…” It’s endearing and deplorable at the same time. But girls will only shed clothing if they feel good and comfortable. It is a lot like coaxing a deer out of the woods with hand gestures. “Common…coooooommoooooon…coo-yes, yes. Good girl. See? We’re not going to hurt you. You’re just curious. You’re a curious deer. Yes. Yes I know. Stop licking me.” But once you get one nude, the party starts to gain inertia and before you know it you’ll be talking about this night for 50 years.

“Oh shit”
You need a few moments like these. They are a staple and inevitable. “Oh shit the cops are here.” “Oh shit where’s my phone?” “Oh shit is it broken?” “Oh shit he just killed that whole bottle.”

Popcorn/Pop Tarts/Pizza Pockets/Pizza/Pastries
“Guy’s gotta eat.” Why is it all the best drunk food begins with the letter P? Submit to your guests this cornucopia of garbage around hour 4 and then be prepared to be the most popular person in the state for 3 minutes.

Quests/Missions
This is the follow up to “Oh shit”. It’s your time to shine. Something needs to be done. “I need to talk my way out of this somehow…thiiiink…” “”We need to retrace our, mine, his, that guys steps to-wait! Lets just call your phone!” “Put some ice on that leg. Get me a hockey stick and some duct tape, I’m making a splint.” “We need to find someone sober enough to drive us to the liquor store.”

Just leave the dorky Warcraft jokes alone, alright you fucking dork?

The ABC's of Parties, Part 1

We live in trying times. The economy sucks, no one has a job anymore and the planet is 15 years away from complete destruction. What’s a guy to do? Party. Hard. How else are you going to cope? But parties in of themselves can be stressful endeavors. No worries. Just follow this simple guide and soon enough you’ll be known as the Good Time Party Guy of Parties.

Alcohol
Here’s a fun fact: human beings have been drinking alcohol since the dawn of civilization (~30,000 B.C.?). It’s as old as grain. And even animals like to let loose once in a while and eat fermented fruit. That’s because life is stressful and you need to take the edge off. The only difference is back then, they were scared of lions eating them and demons. Today you’re worried about not having health insurance and why the Redskins lost to the Cowboys again. If you throw a party without alcohol, and you’re at least 21 years old, people are legally obligated to call you a Pussy Baby Fag Wuss. I shouldn’t even need to explain this part.

Bring a Bunch of Different People
I would have listed this under D for Diversity but I have a better D coming up. Parties thrive on getting everyone from all your different social circles together and mingling. A bunch of white guys in striped shirts, backwards hats named Chad drinking Natty Light is not a party. That’s called a gang. A really, really lame gang. But mix together a witty fag with vodka, a thuggish black guy, a wanton slut (who’s not even drunk!), a paki in med school, and some kid who’ll hurt himself for attention and you’ve got the makings of a Rainbow Coalition that Jesse Jackson puked-up at the end of a really kick ass party. And that’s a good thing.

Creative Corner
People like to do stuff. It’s a fact. The problem with drunks is that they have the mentality of children, and just like children, if you don’t leave out something for them to play with, they’re going to destroy things. I suggest markers and pens. Let your guests draw all over each other and have another one of your trademark “Robert is too much of a pussy to get a real tattoo so lets give him a bunch of fake tattoos” parties. Bonus points if you let guests draw on the walls. Either way you’ll be looking at a lot of cartoon dicks. Be prepared to find a use for the 5 ft. tall Beeramid that is erected mysteriously in the middle of the night. If you throw that thing out its creators will hate you forever. Plus, common. A Beeramid is pretty cool. Say hello to your new, unusable side table.

Drugs
Um, duh. What do you think alcohol is? A vitamin? People do drugs. That’s normal. You just need to draw the line somewhere. No one should have a problem with weed or cigarettes, just so long as done outside and not stinking up the place. Take all the people on shrooms, acid, DMT, etc, throw them in a room with some aluminum foil and a flashlight and call it an evening. Give the girl on E another shot. No one parties on heroin or K, and you shouldn’t even be associating with those kinds of people. You’re hosting a party, not a daycare center for Debbie Downers. I’ll leave coke up to your discretion. Personally, I’m willing to turn a blind eye towards it if that means my witty fag will have enough juice to talk for 7 hours straight. That guy’s crazy.

Everybody Loves Raymond
The show sucks, but it’s good to leave on your TV. It acts as a party filter, drawing out the shit moths to its shit flame, leaving only those who are there for the long haul.

Fighting
I only have one rule at parties and it’s “Don’t be a dick”. It’s that simple. Follow it and everyone will have a great time. If someone came to your party to start shit, round up a posse and quietly escort him out, telling him to never show up again. Fighting will not be tolerated under any circumstance.

Here are a few situations where fighting will be tolerated:
-Play fights between friends. Set up a fake ring in the back. No face shots. Betting encouraged. Also known as “Rough Housing” and “Horse Play”
-Between drunk girls. Hi-larious. Break it up after 2 minutes.
-If some guy hits a girl. You and your posse beat the fucking shit out of him until his ears bleed.

Germans, Dutch, French, Scandinavian, Columbian…
If you know a foreigner it would be stupid not to invite them. More than likely they are super nice and just happy to be invited. Cater to their every whim. You want to show how cool and generous Americans are. They are the wild-card in your diversity deck of guests. It’s almost as crucial as having a real life tranny at your place. If you can get both (either two separate people or, for example, a Scandinavian Tranny) crown yourself King of Friends.

House Parties
Houses are the ideal location to have a party. You need to see location a lot like a game of Clue: who can I do what sex act with where? Can you bang Jessica in the laundry room? How about fondle Katie in the downstairs bathroom? Get blown by Scandinavian Tranny on the smoking patio? You want many options. All your other guests will be playing this game too.

Why Evolution is a Farce

I have been out of college for about 6 months now. In my darker and funner years, I was the love-child of the greater sciences and copious amounts of pot smoking. There was nothing greater to me than to be able to get stoned and to fundamentally understand why and how I was so high I was shitting off the moon, yet fail miserably at articulating it, giving up in a mumbled “let’s go get some WAWA.”

But like I said, I graduated. I’m not doing science anymore. Aaaaaand I’m on probation. My life had lost all meaning. Yes, with science and drugs out of my life, I needed a new source of enlightenment.

The Lord works in mysterious and inefficient ways. While looking through the numerous youtube.com knock-off sites, which included porntube.com, boobtube.com and animalpornboobtube.com, I found my saving grace.

Godtube.com has shown me the light.

I have learned, soooo, much. Let me lay some hard-core science on ya:

1. The second law of thermodynamics states everything goes from order to disorder, so evolution couldn’t have happened. That’s why the world has diabetes and retards and Lou Gehrig’s Disease; since Adam and Eve were like, perfect, and we are descended from them, it’s our genes totally fucking up and breaking down.

2. Did you know there are gaps in the evolutionary fossil record? What kind of bullshit is that? If evolution is correct, there should be billions of lifeless bodies strewn around us like [insert tasteless Holocaust/war/plague joke here]

3. There is no known mechanism for evolution. None. There, I said it. Mutation is a lie and natural selection is a rapist. Boom! You just declare that shit! Next argument!

4. Bananas are so perfect and form-fitting to human hands that they could only come from a designer of some sort. Yup. Bananas. Bananas, in pajamas, are coming down the stairs. Aye-pples and bah-naye-nayes. Holla back girl. Let me hear you say this shit is bananas. B-A..

It’s not the same as smoking weed but after watching this website for a little bit I do start to feel sorta dizzy and lightheaded.

The Discovery Channel Makes Us All Feel Like Stupid Little Girls

The great thing about cable TV is that if one station sucks, you have 399 more to choose from. And they all seem to cater towards one demographic or another: music; country music; christian country music; children's cartoons; and so on. But there are many stations that vie  for the title of "Manliest TV Station". And most of them fail. Spike TV is like that frat guy in college who worshiped/still worships Chuck Norris and uses lines at bars "as a joke". And CNN is too preachy. There is only one ultimate man station. Here is a formula to illustrate this point:

Discovery Channel α 1/(Oxygen + Lifetime)^tampons

Let's take a look at some of their more hardcore shows.

Survivorman

I know there's this rivalry between Survivorman and Man vs. Wild. The fact of the matter is, Les Stroud, this crazy, harmonica playing Canadian(?) can kick the living shit out of Bear Grylls'  hotel sleeping, camera crew using, lying, British ponce ass. He's Bear minus the bullshit. It's just him dumped into some god-forsaken piece of land with a few cameras and told to survive for a week. The most remarkable thing about the show is that Les approaches life threatening challenges in the same manner as someone who is looking for the best, least cumbersome way into the city Friday night to go party. No bitching. Common. It fucking has "man" in the title.

Dirty Jobs

The legend of Mike Rowe is as such: One day in Baltimore after performing in an opera, he and his buddy were dressed as Vikings as they passed the local office for QVS. On a bet, Mike applied for, and received, a job as an announcer. Once he was fired for openly mocking the really really, fucking stupid products he was selling (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rChjMRfi40c) he eventually made his way onto the show Dirty Jobs. There are plenty of awful jobs he performs, all in the sake of demonstrating what must be done to make civilized life possible. Very admirable. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for we the viewers, this includes wading through shit in a sewer and castrating goats with his teeth. Oh my god, that last job. Pair after pair, he yanks out these bloody goat testicles with his teeth. I. Am. Not. Shitting. You. 

Everything else seems to be science oriented, making you feel as dumb as when you watch Jeopardy yet entertaining you none the less. Show premises are like every single high conversation you've had with friends. "Hey, can you really build a bomb out of shit you find in the house?" Well I don't know lets find out! "Are Snow Leopards extinct yet?" Here's a video of two leopards making more leopards. That's because you're watching something either explode, burn, launch, fire, crush, die, fuck, slice, devour, fight, shatter, survive, or explode but differently than the first type of explosion. From robots to rockets, twisters to the science of sex, discovery channel has it all. 

Except fiction. 

Bus Drivers Have Shit to Say About Stuff

It's true. They like to talk about stuff. Stuff that may or may not involve things.

I caught up with the driver of the Fairfax Connecter Bus 505 which runs from Reston Town Center to Reston East (Wiehle Ave.) to the West Falls Church Metro and back again. And again. And again. Over and over and over again. His name is Massiah "Moose" Habibi and this is what he had to say.

Me: So, you're a bus driver? How's that working out for you?

Moose: No distracting the driver while the bus eez in motion.

Am I distracting you?

Yes.

How did you get the handle of "Moose"?

In thees country, no one can pronounce my name, and it eez hard enough assimilating into thees culture without someone stu-peed trying to make trouble for me.

Sucks. Do you think that will change once Barack Hussein Obama is sworn in?

No.

Why? It's a pretty big moment. I mean, he's dark skinned like you, and his name sounds like a combination of Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hus-

No-ting will change. One must be verry verry foolish to theenk all thees will change over night.

Do you think if McCain/Palin won, Sarah Palin would try to hunt you because your name is Moose?

No. She would try to hunt me because my name eez Massiah Habibi.

Haha. Zinger. Any final thoughts?

Do not distract the driver.

Hockey vs. Geese

What's with all the Canada hate?

I like Canada. They're a bunch of pleasant bland people who occasionally toss down to us some pretty cool stuff: Maple syrup, beavers, Rush, French-Canadian Girls (so long as the don't talk), weed, poutine, and lumber.

But you know what? Fuck Canada. They pretend to like us but secretly hate us for being the Fonz to their Richie Cunningham. And have you seen the shit they try to slip by us under a frozen hell-blizzard veil?: Alanis Morissette, mimes, Rush. 

Canada certainly is a land of contrast and diversity. That's why I'm going to lay down the best and worst of what Canada has to offer to us (and I suppose the world).

Best: Hockey

Hockey fucking rules. It's just like soccer but more dangerous and actually fun to watch. Oh and the players actually get hurt (youtube: fake soccer injury). Oh and the fights. Fights on the ice happen, pretty much, every single game. I went to a CAPS game last Thursday. Two minutes after sitting down, the CAPS token black guy Donald Brashear beat the living shit out of Wade Brookbank of the Hurricanes in a hilarious fashion. Imagine, Ultimate Fighting meets Double Dare but with less slime and the 20,000 member studio audience is going "AAAWWW SHIT TAKE THAT YOU FUCKING PUNK BITCH! FUCK!". Well, that's at least what the group of cub scouts behind me were shouting. 

Hockey is also the most inspirational sport of all time. On the top of every single greatest sports moment of all time list, you know what's number 1? The 1980 olympic victory of the amateur US hockey team over the professional Soviet Union, forever immortalized in the second best film of all time, Miracle (the best film of all time: The Mighty Ducks. See where I'm going with this?)

Worst: Canadian Geese

God I hate these things. They even have "Canada" in their name. They're not even birds. When you see a flock of Canadian Geese, it's actually a swarm of honking, shitting, giant locusts, searching for land to lay waste to and ducks to eat. They, shit, EVERYWHERE, and take none in return. Have you ever tried shooing a goose. You're like, "Agh, get out of here!"

"No, you get out of here!" they say back with through their "tthhhhhh!" hiss. Thhh! Thhh! Thhh! Just like every annoying person has a littthhhhhp, so do geese. 

The best goose encounter I ever had was when I saw one's head explode. Some patriotic soul chased, no, defended,  a local pond from a swarm of geese, so they took refuge in a open parking lot. A parking lot right next to a very busy 4 lane street (Reston Pkwy.). Littered on the street, among mounds of goose shit, were several bloody piles of feathers. A few intrepid ne'er-d0-wells decided to venture across. The lights changed, and traffic picked up. Sensing danger, they headed back, but one did not make it. It was struck buy a car. Not just any car, but a truck going 45-50 (probably faster). The only contact the goose made was with its head against the shiny chrome bumper. No one helped it as its innards sprayed everywhere like chunky confetti. Geese don't look after their own kind. They are selfish. 

It was beautiful. I cried.

Thank you, Canada.