Jackie Chan Adventures

Remember that old cartoon show? It was on the air from 2000 to 2005, mainly on Kids WB. What a golden show in a golden era. Just imagine all the historic things that went on in that period: 9/11, Operation Red Dawn, Joe Strummer dying, Subway’s 5-Dollar Foot-Longs. I never experienced any of those things. I just found out about all that stuff. I was too busy watching Jackie Chan Adventures.

In an effort to stop being bored at work, I decided to pick an old cartoon from way back in the day and overload on its respective youtube channel. After a long selection process, I narrowed my choice down to either Jackie Chan Adventures or Muppet Babies. But what to pick? I flipped a coin. It landed on tails. I realized that selection process was retarded, so I picked the cartoon that would give me the least dirty looks if someone at work caught me watching it (“Why are you watching a cartoon about monsters in diapers?”)

Jackie Chan Adventures is a cartoon where Jackie Chan is a young, not-ugly archeologist who speaks English. In ways he is actually similar to his real counterpart, they are both big on the martial arts stuff. The series revolves around Jackie Chan, his niece Jade, and his uncle Uncle as they battle ancient demons, ninja armies, international crime syndicates, magic, and latent racism. They don’t always win.

Magic plays a major role in the series (like in Jackie Chan’s real life). For the most part, the gist of the show is that the heroes scour the globe searching for things called Talismans, magical octagonal rocks each bestowed with an animal power of the Chinese Zodiac. For example, the Rooster Talisman gives you the power of flight since roosters totally fly. The Sheep Talisman gives you the power to astral project into people’s dreams since the writers are HUGE dorks and like obvious jokes. And the Pig Talisman gives you laser eyes because why the fuck not?

Epiphany:

I am sitting at my work computer. I’m supposed to be working right now. Instead I’m watching old racist cartoons meant for children and writing about it.

Is this really where my life has taken me? I am a healthy, red blooded, free 22 year old man! I should be out there, there in the real world, having my own adventures! Discovering my own magic! Taking chances, making mistakes, getting messy! What the fuck am I surrounded by? What is this gray material that comprises my cubical cell walls? Broken dreams? Behind me is a window to the glorious world outside, just waiting for me…

Man was not meant to housed, no, caged like this. We are creatures of desire, of passion, of fire. To deny our essence is to be dead inside. To wander the earth as mere ghosts of our spirited past, echoes of jubilation that ran free in glorious Eden. Here we are all slaves to the Three Masters of Money, Want, and Time.

The problems we face as a species arise from agriculture sustenance, exacerbated by the Industrial Revolution, waxing forth until the enormity of suffering and pain destroys us all! My friends, this is the source of social stratification, coercion and alienation! This is the evil which lurks in the hearts of men! We must strike now while the pistol remains cocked! Cut the head of the snake known as Civilization and watch it writhe in its blood and end-trails. I call upon you all to de-industrialize, abolish the division of labor, end specialization, and abandon large scale technologies! Take action now! Go out and throw a brick into a Starbucks! Burn your boss’ car! Destroy something beautiful…

The apocalypse is finished, today it is the precession of the neutral, of forms of the neutral and of indifference…all that remains, is the fascination for desertlike and indifferent forms, for the very operation of the system that annihilates us. Now, fascination (in contrast to seduction, which was attached to appearances, and to dialectical reason, which was attached to meaning) is a nihilistic passion par excellence, it is the passion proper to the mode of disappearance. We are fascinated by all forms of disappearance, of our disappearance. Melancholic and fascinated, such is our general situation in an era of involuntary transparency

Hitchhiker’s Guide to Central Pennsylvania

Although it might not appear to be so to the untrained laymen eye, central Pennsylvania is a microcosm for heartland America. And because the heartland is the most important part of any country or person, central Pennsylvania is quite possibly the physical manifestation of America (besides the actual America). And out of all the countries God put on this planet, America is the most important and least-smelly one, so Cen-Penn is pretty much the world incarnate. And because the bible tells us so, we are the happy little nougat-y center of the universe. Indeed, central Pennsylvania is the totality of existence; the alpha and the omega.

Now the important question: how do I get the F out of here?

Super Secret Blog Spy Message!
(Here’s a little how-to on the what-to-dos-and-don’t-do should you find yourself stuck in this how-do-you-do poo-poo voodoo skip-to-my-lou skinamarinkidink-skinamarinkido human zoo)

Hitchhiker’s Guide to Central Pennsylvania
There’s a saying about Pennsylvania: They’ve got Philadelphia in the east, Pittsburgh in the west, and in the middle is Alabama. Take comfort in the fact that when hitchhiking, your chances of being picked up by either an honest-to-God redneck or an Amish buggy driver are 50-50 regardless of your proximity to Amish country. Take a chance, stick your thumb out and hop on it. You will either be treated to a lengthy story about the ’05 and ’08 Steelers or no story at all.

Etiquette is as follows. First find a deserted piece of shit of a road. You won’t have to look far. Thumb down a ride and tell them were you want to go. If you say “anywhere but here” or “just get me out of the state” the driver is then protected under Pennsylvania state laws from being accused of assault. He can legally beat your ass. Just try to be specific. Be like, “Yeah, take to that gay-bar in Scranton, you know what I’m talking about. The Man Hole. Yeah that’s right.” If you get beat up then at least it’s a no-no.

The Restaurant at the End of I-79
Interstate 79 runs the back spine of the state and then unceremoniously dies at Erie, Pennsylvania. You may have heard about it’s relevance in the news recently; it is ranked the 55th most deadly highway in the country. Some people say it’s because of all the drunks on the road. Others say it’s the Jersey Devil’s fault. I like to think it’s because of the highway herself. Once you start heading north, you’re hypnotically drawn towards oblivion. Your only options are to crash your car into one of the three great bastions of void: Lake Erie, western New York, or Ohio.

At the end of I-79 is a restaurant. It’s called Zero’s and its open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. It is inhabited by a cadre of spooky trucker patrons, wait staff, and yokels, (figurative) ghosts of their formal selves, like the whole thing is a scene from a Tennessee Williams play if it was directed by Tim Burton. They are not dead. They are survivors. They are the few who stared directly into the quantum singularity of nullity, went past the event horizon and lived to talk about it. They will tell you to order the cherry pie.

I have no fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean. I’m just saying, these guys’ brains are seriously fried or they’ve acquired some sort of super sentience through this exposure and it just seems like their brains are sizzling bacon. Either way, you don’t fuck with people like that. Just order the pie.

Life, the Road, and Um, Like Everything
So um, like, apparently? You gotta walk down some roads…before you can be called a man? And chickens cross roads? So like, um…uh….we’re all like these chickens crossing roads…? And like, the more roads you cross, um, the more you’re a man? Like it’s a man thing? Yeah, and uh, um, it’s like spiritual, man. Aaaaaaaaaand, you gotta man-up and cross the road. It’s like, everything is the road and…the road is everything. Right? Uhhh…ummmm……So uh, when you’re like walking down “that road of life,” like, don’t be a faggot.

Dust in the wind, man.

So Long, and Thanks for Nothing
A thousand thank you’s, m’Lord. How gracious of you to permit me, a humble traveler, stowage in your mechanical vessel for 10 miles. I’m so glad you didn’t over-burden your heart by driving me to my actual destination which was where you were going to fucking anyway. No, we wouldn’t want that, would we? You gotta keep that extra seat open for some skanky road-head you’ll pick up along the way to Trenton, so shit, thanks for what little you did give me. I know it was tough. If you catch a homeless person begging on the street, don’t shill out more than 35 cents for him. You’ll crush him under the weight of your enormous generosity. Hey, man. Don’t worry that you dropped me off in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. It’s cool. Totally chill. I always wanted to know what Satan actually looked like. I’ll just crash in that coal mine tonight.

P.S. suck my ass, your ’90 Honda Civic smells like stale McDonalds.

Mostly Harmless?
A quintessential riddle for all hitchhikers: will the hitchhiker or the hitchhike-ie be murdered first? We’ve all seen The Hitcher. Some sketch guy travels the roads, get’s picked up by a car full of sexy teenagers who are really in their late 20’s, and he kills them all with an axe. And we’ve all seen the ending of House of a Thousand Corpses where after being the sole survivor of Dr. Satan’s said house of 1000 dead bodies, some half naked chick gets picked up by clown named Captain Spaulding and is promptly taken back to the house. Presumably to die. Point is all that stuff, crazy murdering hitchhikers and crazy murdering clowns who pick up hitchhikers, exists in central Pennsylvania.

But come ON. That’s 2 guys in a state of, what, like 12.5 million people? And let’s assume not everyone in the state hitchhikes or gives rides like that. Say, 1000 people in the whole state. Let’s do a really conservative estimate because it’s totally way more than that. That’s 0.2% chance of dying. That means you have a 99.8% of living (winning). Those odds are great. Shit are you kidding me, those odds are fantastic! You WISH you could have odds like that in Vegas. You probably won’t be brutally murdered so don’t be such pussies.

And Another Final Thing…
You need to walk a fine line when it comes to wardrobe. It needs to be durable, yet comfortable. Don’t come off as too hardened, or something that screams “take advantage of me.” Don’t wear any sports stuff: Pittsburgh fans hate Philly and vice versa, and you’re stuck in the middle. I suggest a Canadian tuxedo with a pair of comfortable boots lined with some of those Dr. Shoals pads. And maybe a musical instrument, even if you don’t play it (lie and say its broken when they ask).

Drink from the Septic Tank of Defeat

Here’s an analogy (or metaphor or whatever):

When you imagine drinking from the chalice of victory, what does that look like? I see the happiest man on earth, drinking, no, pouring, liquid glory all over his face. It’s bright gold, almost glowing. A silky concoction that’s a cross between liquid butter and milk. It goes down smoother than water and tastes a little like a steak made from a cow that Leonardo da Vinci personally slaughtered. And brandy. All from one of those garish, diamond-encrusted pimp cups a-la Lil’ John that were popular for like 3 seconds. It’s a quick drink.

But what does losing look like?

I see a man being handed a shovel and told to dig somewhere slightly off-site from an Arkansas trailer park. He’s digging up the park’s big 2,000 gallon septic tank. Once unearthed, he is instructed to drink liquefied redneck shit until it’s empty. For the entire duration of this torture, the shit will stay at a consistent luke-warm 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s too heavy to lift and chug, so this man has to lay belly down on the ground and scoop raw shit directly from the tank to his mouth using his hand. It takes a long, long time to finish.

If this man lost with honor, he gets to use a dirty old Dale Earnhardt plastic cup instead of his hand.

The Washington Capitals are chowin’ down at the ol’ septic trough cup-less right now. And they've only got about 6 months to finish and put it behind them before we start this thing all over again.

Fuck did they ever lose. They lost big. On home ice. In the most important game of their lives. I’ve never seen a hockey team down 5 goals before (for my Canada-hating readers out there, most games are decided by 1, maybe 2 goals). The final score was 6-2 in favor of the smelly asshole Pittsburgh Penguins.

Being accustomed to choking is a thing every D.C. sports fan must condition themselves to, because it happens allllllllllllll the fuckinnnnnnnnnnn’ time.

Fight Night

Are you ready…for some HARD HITTING, BONE CRUNCHING, FACE MELTING, (hypothetical) MATCH-UPS?! Oh YEEEEEAAAAAAH!!! That’s what I’m talking about! If your soul has a seat belt then you better buckle up, Bessie May, because I’m about to drive this car made out of nonsense into a brick wall made out of testosterone and some brick!

The rules are simple. I pair up two legendary fighters in an arena of my choosing. Each fight adheres to rules 3, 4, 5, 7, and 8 of Fight Club. I will use logic to decide who wins based on logic which I will logically ‘splain. Let’s get it on!

Fight 1: Batman vs. Spiderman
Arena: New York City
Winner: Batman
At a first glance, you’d probably think of picking Spidey for the win. He outclasses Bats in speed, strength and stamina, plus he’s got that spidey sense thing, AND he can climb walls AND he’s a smart guy. But it’s that last part that does Peter Parker in. See, he’s book smart. Batman is not only 10x as book smart, he’s got street smarts, and the street he lives on is “How to Completely Fuck Up a Meta-Human’s Shit Ave.” Dude can take out MF Superman if need be. All it takes is one well-placed, tricky batarang to the face and Spiderman’s down for the count, and Batman’s got the dexterity to pull it off.

Fight 2: Joe vs. The Volcano
Arena: The Volcano
Winner: Joe (by default)
Tom Hanks, you asshole. Why can’t you ever play a bad guy in any of your movies? *sigh/grunt*. I’ll spare you the details of this horrible 1990’s wank-fest of a movie, but all you need to know is that Tom Hanks voluntarily jumps into a volcano with Meg Ryan. The volcano erupts, blowing them into the ocean unscathed (impossible). The volcano then sinks into the ocean (more impossible). I assume that since Abe Vigoda was also on the volcano, he dies as well (super impossible: Abe Vigoda cannot be killed without the use of sorcery). Logically the Volcano should have won. No, effin’, shit. But you cannot argue with the results of the movie, written by some Hollywood suit between hours 4 and 6 of a coke bender.

Fight 3: Coke vs. Pepsi
Arena: My stomach
Winner: Pepsi
Hey, I don’t care if Coca-Cola is one of the 3 trigrams in the pillar of evil American capitalism (the other two being McDonalds and Wal-Mart). Pepsi, tastes, better. Done. Both of their advertising departments suck. Pepsi and Coke can take Justin Timberlake and Santa and shove it up their respective asses. Coke should just work on making a product that doesn’t taste like Atlanta hick spittle.

Main Event: Washington Capitals vs. Pittsburgh Penguins
Arena: Verizon Center
Winner: Stay tuned tonight because this is going to be epic. C-A-P-S CAPS CAPS CAPS! I hope Ovechkin caves Sidney Crosby’s face in.

The Scotsman, The Blue Collar Man, and Dick Cheney

(To the tune of "The Times They Are A-Changin' by Bob Dylan)

Three men traveled long
From far far away
To ask a blind shaman
What creatures they display
Their spirit animals
This Indian will say
They must know
To make themselves happy
Sight beyond sight is
What they’ll see today
Because they know, their lives are crappy

The Scotsman stepped up
And said “nutin’ ta loose!”
The shaman said “great!
Your animal’s the goose!
You’re ornery, loud,
And prone to abuse
When you drink with your wife
You get slappy
Now get out of here
Before you drop a huge deuce
Because you know, your life is crappy”

The blue collar man
Was just a bit timid
And repulsed to find out
That inside he’s a squid
Spineless and gray
Screwed by takeover bids
His story is sad
And sappy
“I never wanted this
When I was a kid!”
Because now, his life is crappy

Dick was expecting
To be a lame duck
But shocked to learn
He’s bacterial muck
A parasite disease
Spreading horrible luck
A cancer on Earth
Mr. Cheney
An epiphany this grand
He let out a “FUCK!”
And now he knows, his life is crappy

And they all knooow, their lives are, craaaaaaaaaaaaa-ppy

Bitch Squad

Have you seen my dog Oskar yet? He’s a 1 year old Great Dane and he’s amazing. Sure, the sight of a 140lb dog contorting himself into a sleeping position where his head rests on top of his turgid nutsack is gross as hell (albeit impressive), he’s still a sweetums.

Because of his size and cuddly disposition, my 10 year old neighbor said “He’s like a cross between a bunny and a horse! A Bun-orse. A borse!” As she tried to combine the two words I was like, “No, he’s a horny.” Smooth.

There’s this crazy lady who lives in my neighborhood. Like straight up Loony Toons, cuckoo la banza nuts. She love’s my dog. I mean, loves, my dog. I’m really hesitant to say “oh well this lonely pile of sad just needs to get laid” because seriously, I am concerned that she would try to fuck my dog. No I am not being cynical. No I am not exaggerating.

A typical “conversation” with this very, very creepy lady is full of inappropriate words and touching. I put conversation in quotation marks because in a, let’s say 5 minute, interaction with her she will say maybe 1 thing directly to me.

I’ll be walking my dog down the street, plastic bag on my hand, waiting to pick up a duce, and all of a sudden I’ll hear a loud, piercing “Hiiiiiiii boyfriend!!!” I don’t think this woman has a ring on.

It’s her, the one that constantly refers to herself as “Oskar’s girlfriend”. Iiiick. Then she’ll bend down, pucker her lips so my dog will lick them, rub all over him and I’m pretty sure I once saw her cop a feel of his junk. Dude. It’s a dog. Not even your dog. It’s my fucking dog, and I’m standing like right in front of you.

Talking to this woman is impossible. Even if you ask direct questions she’ll do that stupid baby-voiced vicarious puppet thing through the dog. I’ll be like “so nice day huh?” and she’ll be all (again, in a baby voice) “Oskar thinks is going to wain day. The clouds ahw dawk and stoh-mi. Yes dey ahw. Yes dey ahw! Who’s my boyfriend? Who’s my boyfriend?! *tries to make out with my dog in front of me*”

Ew, sick. I seriously gagged typing that up. For real.

I gotta start one of those neighborhood watch things but instead of outing pedophiles we go after nutty spinsters that would molest a dog. I’m thinking it’ll be called Bitch Squad and the tools of the trade would be stun guns, net guns, and the Holy Bible. We would travel around in a van with giant “No Means No – BITCH SQUAD” written on the side in red Veranda letters. The crew would be me, the self-righteous leader of the operation with a personal score to settle and a devil-may-care attitude. Then there’s Jones, an ex-dog catcher who’s trying to go straight in this dog-eat-dog world. And finally that Dog Whisperer guy Caesar Millan so he can consult the dogs and see if they were inappropriately touched, all Pet Psychic-ish. BITCH SQUAD will be appearing on CBS’s Fall 2009 lineup after new episodes of CSI: Milwaukee

(Note: for the sake of my dog's privacy, the dog pictured above is not Oskar)

The ABC’s of Stand Up, Part 3

Road Gigs
What would you say if I told you driving half way across the country to Bum-Fuck Nowhere, Illinois to MC a sports bar comedy show for a bunch of judgmental rednecks all for $25 is what I’m shooting for? I already know what you’re going to say and you can “kiss my grits”. You might fancy yourself a worldly traveler for backpacking through Europe or Spring Breaking the hell out of Cancun but try becoming the culture of your foreign destination, just for one night. I’m just glad to get the fiz-uuuuuuuck out of the ‘burbs.

Silence
One of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received (and continue to routinely neglect) is “enjoy the silence on stage”. The problem a lot of new comics have is that when they go up, they are so nervous that they rapid barf their rehearsed set into the mic and then immediately retreat off stage. Dude, slow down. Relax. Find some awkward pauses and sit on them. They might even turn out funny.

“Tell me a joke!”
I hate telling people, especially co-workers, that I do stand up. The first thing they want is for you to tell them a joke. “Tell me a joke!” Actually it doesn’t work like that. See, stand up is- “No common I bet you’re really funny tell me a joke!” Dude, I’m just sitting here trying to eat my breakfast burrito- “Well you told Jessica a joke!” No I didn’t. “Yes you did! You went over to her, told her a joke and then you guys laughed!” Well it wasn’t a joke from my routine. We were actually making fun of y-…Bush.

Sean Gabbert has a really funny bit about this. “Tell me a joke!” Alright. A man walks into a bar…I make $25,000 a year. Knock knock? I don’t have health insurance. Wakka Wakka (It’s better when he performs it. See? That is exactly why this shit doesn’t work)

Unintentionally Funny
Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. Fall on the floor and find $20 why don’t you? Go with it.

Videos
Back in ancient times (re: 1989), if you wanted to get in a new room they’d ask you to make a tape and send it in. Like, tape tape. VHS. Electronic images and sounds recorded on strips of magnetic tape and housed in a cassette. Jesus, grandpa. Talk about freaking cave people. Then somewhere in the 2000’s that switched over to DVD’s for like, a month before bookers were just like “email me your best 8 minutes doood I’m streaming Heroes.” I can’t wait to see what the 2010’s will be like when a booker is all “hey, just brain zip me your best 30 seconds of Moon Jokes. I’ve got another showcase lined up for the Galaxy Rocket Cruise and I can only get 50 comics on board.” Haha just kidding. We’ll all be dead by then.

Web Stuff
I don’t feel like making the same joke about technology, the future, comedy, and all our imminent deaths (it’s totally going to be Terminator style) so all I’ll say is that promoting yourself and creating your own little fan base has never been easier. Shit, I might as well go back into Time magazine archives and pull out something from 2001 about the technological revolution or something. Web. Make. Comedy. More. Best.

eXperience
God, I remember the first time I tried stand up. December 19, 2005 at this little Monday night open mic in this little DuPont Circle coffee shop called SoHo. It was cold, miserable and hosted by Erin Jackson. People are going up before me….and just absolutely bombing. I think the guy right before me ended with his rendition of the Aristocrats that involved an aborted fetus. I was covered in paper cuts after his edgy set. Anyway, I go up, I’m nervous and I’m doing, OK. Not great, but not terrible either. I’m getting a few laughs here and there. Half way through my set, I pass out and fall off the stage. I was in the middle of a bit. I was like, “You know, dating is really…oh shit” and I keel over sideways, smack my head on the table, and I’m out. The thing is, NO ONE did anything for about a good 10 seconds. They were looking around to see who was in on the apparent joke. When they realized “oh shit, this kid really fainted” they helped me up. I remember waking up and thinking, “Oh wow. How did I get back to my bed? What’s this thing tangled around me (it was the mic cable). Oh shit I’m still there…” Some guys were like “all right, give him a hand every body.” I was mortified. I have never been that embarrassed in my life. I went over to where I was sitting to brood a little bit and try to play it off as if nothing happened. The guy who went on after me passed me and jokingly said “how am I supposed to follow that?” Then the ambulance came. I had to go outside and deny medical treatment from the paramedics. I told them what happened and they thought it was hilarious. One of the guys took a print out of my EKG and said “Now who says white boys don’t have rhythm?” Apparently this story has made it all the way up to New York. Yes. I’m that guy. I’m still meeting people who are shocked to discover that was me.

I don’t faint on stage anymore and I can only chalk that up to experience.

Yuck Yucks
A lot of (B-room) comedy clubs have goofy names like Yuck Yucks, Wiseacres, Magooby’s, Sir Laughs-a-lot, etc. The higher up you go in the comedy club echelon, the stores that are actually franchise chains, the more respectable sounding the names are, like Improv, Funny Bone, Comedy Factory. This is all totally worthless knowledge because stage time is stage time, and you’ll be surprised at just how good (and bad) some crowds can be, regardless of what club you’re at.

Zilch

When you first start out, this is how much you get paid, this is how much you are respected, and this is how many funny jokes you have. You are the living embodiment of that concept Tyler Durden talks about in Fight Club about once you lose everything you are free to do anything. Chuck Palahniuk is deep.