Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Random Hostility

Some days, society just makes you shake your head and say, “How fucking stupid is everybody?” For me, this happens about every 30 minutes … or every 30 seconds if I’m near a TV.

Anyway, I thought it would be therapeutic to let all the anger out. The following is a series called Random Hostility. It’s a steady diet of societal failures.

The “Miss Universe” pageant
Am I the only one who thinks this is the most arrogant and naïve name ever given to a contest?

Miss Universe? Let's just stick with Miss Earth.

It is plain to see there is other intelligent life in the universe (there are an estimated 70 sextillion stars in the universe similar to our sun). Yet, we humans are arrogant enough to presume the winner of our “Miss Universe” pageant is the most superior female species of intelligent life IN THE UNIVERSE! What a joke.

No other contest is this arrogant. Even our American sporting championships declare the winners as world champions, not universal champions. Muhammed Ali was never delcared Heavyweight Champion of the Universe.

Nonetheless, stripping the Miss Universe event of it’s credibility is somewhat of an elementary task, especially given that one of the judges in the 2006 contest this past week was Tom Green, the comedian who was pretty funny for 6 weeks in the summer of 2000 and whose career was officially pronounced dead in 2005 when he starred in the children’s TV movie, Bob The Butler.

The contestants, as it turns out, have even less substance than the judges. This is evidenced by this year's winner, Puerto Rico’s Zuleyka Rivera, who fainted shortly after being announced Miss Universe Sunday. Rivera was picked as the most impressive female throughout the far reaches of the ethos ... and she faints. I am not impressed.

These contestants are an embarrassment to women everywhere. The Miss Universe website says the participants are “savvy, goal-oriented and aware.” Last time I checked, no one who is “savvy” and “aware” faints.

And “goal-oriented?” Holy crap. That phrase sucks. All you need to know about that phrase is that Osama bin Laden is also very “goal-oriented.”

Finally, more contradictions. The web site lists what past winners are doing now, as if to validate the contest. I figure these past winners, who are apparently the most impressive female species among the 100 billion galaxies in this Universe, would be achieving profound things. So I randomly click on one.

She is Miss Universe 2002, Justine Penak of Panama. Her write up:

An ambassador in her country, Justine continues to travel the world on behalf of Panama to promote its culture, history and resources. She also continues to model and dedicate time to her new puppy, Molly.

Translation: She went to Europe and slept with a French waiter named Pierre. She appeared in an advertisement for hand soap before her life became so void of meaning she went out and got a dog and named it Molly.

In my opinion, the only thing that could be worse than the Miss Universe pageant would be if they held a contest for World's Greatest Grandpa.

Tip the counter help?
I don’t tip counter help. Sorry. Standing behind a counter and moving 3 inches to the left to swipe my debit card does not deserve a tip. Greedy fucks. Besides, I'm the one doing all the work. I have to enter my pin number, press whether or not I want money back, press whether or not the amount shown is the correct amount, etc., etc. Maybe I'll tip myself.

Besides, what’s going to happen if I don’t tip the shaggy-haired, 18-year-old behind the counter at The Pita Pit? Is he not going to take my money next time? The tip jar, and the tip line on debit card receits are insulting. Fuck off.

If you want a tip go bartend or wait tables you fucks.

Too many bags
Speaking of cashiers, next time I go to the store and buy a stick of deodorant, I don’t need a big plastic bag, thanks.

I have 10 fingers and two arms, and enough wherewithall to handle a 3 oz bar of Speed Stick without it being placed in a bag.

Last week, I bought a paperback book from Barnes & Noble. They put the book in a plastic bag. Let me reiterate. They put a book in a big bag.

Really? A book in a bag? For a second there, I thought I was going to have to ask the stockman to help me carry this book out to my car.

Women who park on curbs
This fucking pisses me off. Women who have huge, expensive cars and lack the skills to drive them.

Have you ever seen a woman pull into the front parking spot and completely fail in the whole geometry of the manuever?

The result is her back right tire resting up on the curb. It is not pretty. Three wheels on the ground, one resting on top of a Palmetto bush. Hey, sounds like Miss Universe material. This reminds me of my favorite Rodney Dangerfield quote: "How come my wife can spot a blonde hair at 20 yards, but everytime she comes home she misses the garage door?"

The strange dichotomy of women in big, expensive cars is this: I know a few women who have bought themselves big SUVs. These women are all excellent drivers. The ones who suck at driving and parking are the ones who have had someone else (i.e. Daddy or their husband) buy them these huge SUVs. This phenomenon should be delved deeper into.

Inverse plural
Anyone who uses the inverse plural deserves to have an umbrella stuck up their ass and opened. For those who need a short primer, the inverse plural is a complete abortion of the English language. It’s when someone adds an extra “s” to a proper noun.

For instance, Karen might tell you she is going to go purchase the new Wilson Phillips CD at Best Buys. She says this in spite of the fact the store is called Best Buy.

Your name is Karen. I don't call you Karens.

Other nouns frequently fucked over by the inverse plural include:

Barnes & Noble(s)
Oscar Mayer(s)
Olive Garden(s)
Everybody Loves Raymond(s)
Krispy Kreme(s)
Blockbuster(s) - (in referrence to the video store).
Nestle(s) Crunch
Sam Goody(s)
J.C. Penny(s)
Ruby Tuesday(s)

Failing at the drive-thru
Folks, if the window on the driver’s side of your car doesn’t roll down, you should not be allowed to drive through at fast food restaurants. Simple philosophy. Maybe you should Value-Size your auto-mechanic bill.

Thank you. I feel much better, now.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Dial 1-800-Cell-Porn

Whenever you're out drinking with a friend, at some point during the night, there is guaranteed to be one long stretch that passes where neither person talks.

Sometimies it's 30 seconds. Sometimes a minute.

Whenever this silence occurs, I believe the next words to be spoken should be significant or hilarious.

Which is why I couldn’t stop laughing recently when a dude I was out with broke the ice with his line. He pulls out his cell phone and says this:

“Hey, do you want to see a video of my girlfriend sucking my dick?”

My kind of guy. When you’re out drinking and the conversation turns to pornography, it is always a good thing. I'm a huge fan of inappropriate subject matter.

It's a hell of lot more interesting than listening to Couple A ramble on about the intimate details of the installation of the new cabinets in their kitchen. Or listening to some married guy talk about the new major electronics purchase he has just made which, evidently, will distract him from how boring and routine his life is becoming.

That's boring shit. But porn is always fun. Especially when your friend has a 15-second video clip on his cell of his girlfriend going down on him. (No, he didn’t really show it to me. But a few more rounds and I likely would have watched it).

I thought this was fascinating, and culturally significant. Then I discovered that Cell Porn, as we’ll call it, is quite prevalent.

Several of my friends have revealed to me they have pictures/videos of them either fucking or getting blown. But they never show it to me.

One thing is always constant, however. The moment someone reveals they have Cell Porn always occurs at random times.

Say I'm talking to a friend about whether The Price Is Right adds the clicking sound made by the Plinko chips strictly for TV or if the clicking sounds are audible in the studio. At some random moment, just as The Price Is Right conversation fades, the cell phone will come out.

“Dude, do you want to see pictures of me fucking Kathryn?”

I love it. Not that I want to see it, but I am enamored by the fact this is actually occurring.

It’s to the point now, that my friends’ girlfriends are pulling the same stunt. I have actually been tricked into seeing some rather forgettable shit. Totally dooped.

Girlfriend A has her cell out. “Hey, check out this picture.”

I look. It’s a photo of my buddy on his bed with his erection shooting up inside his gym shorts (yes, his shorts were on, mercifully).

Oh, really. Thanks. You think that’s funny? Why don't you just point to my chest and say, "What's that," then when I look down hit me in the face with your hand.

I felt like the waiters in the movie "Waiting" who got goated.

So apparently it goes both ways. Maybe I find this fascinating because I have never recorded my sexual exploits with my cell phone. Actually, when I’m having sex it never occurs to me to get out my cell and turn my bedroom into a movie set.

I mean, I wouldn't even be able to find my cell phone while I'm having sex. It takes me five minutes to find my keys before I leave home everyday. I have no idea where my cell is unless it is ringing.

Do these guys have those cell-phone belt holders strapped to their body during sex and then just whip out the camera phone when they have a money shot? How does this work? I want to know.

My friend says “Dude, my cell was on the night stand.” That seems to make sense. I guess.

Regardless, we are all now porn stars. Our phones, the ones we use to conduct major business on, to talk to our mothers and fathers on, is now filled with some of our dirtiest and most forbidden acts.

Isn't technology great?

Friday, July 14, 2006

San Diego = Paradise

San Diego's Pacific Beach may be the most amazing place in the Galaxy.

That's a bold statement considering I'm not sure what lies beyond our solar system.

But as far as Earth goes, there can be no place better.

For starters, this small stretch of Pacific Coast could be the home of the most prolific gene pool in North America. The dudes are fit, tan and totally money (I am secure enough in my manhood to openly make this observation).

As for the women, they are world class.

I have been to New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Miami Beach, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Atlanta ... you name it. But I have never been to a place where every single woman was an 8 or above.

In my recent trip here last week, it became a game to find an ugly woman. After seven hours of drinking on the beach, we had seen two.

No bench warmers. No scrubs. The women of San Diego are kind of like the 1992 U. S. Dream Team whose bench warmers were future Hall of Famers Scottie Pippen, Chris Mullin and Karl Malone.
Shockingly, you couldn't even find the token ugly/fat girl that is frequently a part of the female herd, the one who is there to make the other women feel better about their apperanace.

No. San Diego is World Class.

The thing is, the people at San Diego's Pacific Beach exhibit an auroa of confidence I have seen very few places, except for here in The Hollywood of the East Coast. Everyone San Diegoan knows they are fucking beautiful.

And they seem to be really pumped up about it. But they don't care to judge you strictly on appeance, a quality that makes this place even more unbelievable.

Let's not forget, the surfing. Or the people sauntering onto the packed beach with 30-pack Budweiser suitcases on a picturesque, sunny, summer Saturday afternoon in July.

Did I mention the surfing?

San Diego is by far the most underated city in the U.S. They don't have an NBA or NHL franchise, but they don't need one.

They have rolling hills, sunshine, beaches, ideal weather and beautiful bodies, beautiful souls. And great bars.

What else could one ask for?