Friday, October 30, 2009

Pseudo-Celebrity Halloween Costume Roundup

Ah, celebrities. They're just plain BETTER than us regular folk, aren't they? That's why asshole paparazzi follow them around 24/7. Because even if all they're doing is sucking down some overpriced sushi at some suck-up hipster joint that'll close within a month, it's just so much more glamorous than if WE were doing it. Because they're FAMOUS!

Unfortunately, part of the problem of these fame-whore fucks getting photo-stalked every moment they're awake is that we sometimes are forced to confront how lame they can be. And at no time of year is this more evident than at Halloween. See, celebrities don't get enough of dressing up and playing pretend at movie sets, concert halls and fucking Los Angeles in general, so they still go all-out on All-Hallow's. So I thought it would be fun to take a look at a few of them.

Let's, shall we?

1) Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon


Oh...kay. It seems as though Squeaky McCougarboobs and her Child Bride have decided to pay homage to our country's heroic firefighters. And, admittedly, Nick hasn't screwed it up THAT hard. If I saw him on the street, he might actually be able to pass for the real deal, if not for the fact that he's fucking twelve. But Mariah? Yeah, she blew it as hard as she blew Tommy Mottola at her recording contract negotiations. If you went to put down a four-alarm apartment fire in THAT getup, you'd start to think "Backdraft" was a documentary right around the same time the radiant heat from ten feet outside the front door started to melt your implants.

Score: 6/10

2) Jeremy Piven


Scuttlebutt around the Hollywood office water cooler is that Jeremy Piven doesn't just play a massive cock on television, but that his performances are reasonably convincing being as he draws on his experience as an actual real-life penis-munch. Must be a "method" thing.

Anyway, here he is dressed up as an offensive racial stereotype. Although, to be far, it's not like he really put all that much effort into it. A hastily-cut hole in the middle of your hallway rug does not a serape make, you rectum. But hey, at least you also didn't bother wearing a sombrero, so the Latino Anti-Defamation League won't have to bury you in an anthill right up to your receding hairline.

Score: 2/10.

3) Audrina Patridge



Here we have someone named "Audrina Patridge." To be honest, I have zero idea who in the hell she is. However, I'm assured she's quite famous, for some reason nobody can actually articulate. After looking at several other pictures of her on the "internet," it appears as though her "talent" consists of never looking directly into a camera lens while being photographed. I'm not really sure how marketable that is, but it must be worth something, or she wouldn't pop up everywhere like Herpes at a bath house.

Despite this, I include this picture mostly to demonstrate that whoever or whatever she is, she's a goddamned idiot. The reason I say that is that she's apparently dressed like a "peacock." Of course, as anyone with even an ASSOCIATE'S in Ornithology knows, "peacocks" are always male. Hell, even people with a passing interest in the Audubon guide understand that when it comes to most of our fine feathered friends, the male of the species usually sports the more impressive plumage as a secondary sex characteristic intended to help them attract a mate. Only peaCOCKS have that fanning, shimmery tail. Female peacocks are called "peahens," and they're actually mostly gray. So, if you wanna break it down, she's sort of a peacock...in drag...or something. I guess. I dunno. Whatever. I've already spent way too much time thinking about someone who I care less about than I do about whether or not the lint filter on my dryer vent needs cleaning.

Score: 5/10

4) Nadya "Octomom" Suleman


I am assured that this is real. And for once, I have absolutely nothing to say. So...I'm just gonna leave this right here.

Score: 0/10

5) Rob and Marisol Thomas


Here we have Matchbox 20's Rob Thomas, and his wife Marisol. Now, despite the fact that Rob Thomas is kind of a top-40 corporate wimp-rock whore, he's actually pulled out a win here, gearing up as a "Baseball Fury" from the 1979 gang-war cult flick "The Warriors." And I'll be damned if I'm not forced to admit that this is actually pretty cool. He even accessorized with a Louisville Slugger. Golf clap, dude.

Of course, as a team, there's a bit of fail happening here...Because if Rob was going as a Fury, then his wife should have opted for a compatible counterpoint. All it would've taken would be an arm-sling, pink camisole top, and tan trenchcoat, and boom: instant "Mercy." Even more fun would be a leather "Warriors" vest with no shirt on underneath (which would be pretty hot, but still offer decent lady-parts coverage) and some torn jeans. Hell, feather your hair, stick a switchblade into your belt and go as a "Lizzie," for Christ's sake. And that's just off the top of my head. Instead, she's just topped off what she would wear any other weekend with a cheesy wig, and fallen back on the generic "Sexy _________" 98% of women dress up as for Tricks and Treats. Boo. F-minus for effort.

Even so...You win THIS round, Thomas. I will not be shoving that bat up your ass and turning you into a popsicle THIS time. But I've got my eye on you.

Score: 6/10

6) Speidi


Oh, dear sweet n' crispy Jesus Q. Christ in a fucking chicken basket.

Yes, this is what it appears to be. This is the two most useless carbon-based lifeforms in the entire universe (Spencer and Heidi Pratt), dressed up as the SECOND most useless: Jon and Kate Gosselin. Yes, really.

Y'know, this post might just as well have gone up under the heading of "The Day I Lost Faith in Humanity." Because I firmly believe that you are looking at the absolute nadir of the whole of Western culture right...up...there. It's as if the entire douche-o-sphere finally divided by zero and started to eat itself all at once. In fact, the only thing that could actually complete the circle is if the Gosselins reunited for one evening, and went to a costume party dressed as Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar.

And that, my friends, would open the Seventh Seal.

Score: -47/10

The Internet has peaked.

Where do we go from here?

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Tragedy and What It Is In Vids: Volume One

Tragedy

I read the news today, oh boy, as I’m sure you did. To say the news was rather sad would be an understatement.

Last night’s tragedy has affected me on a base level that is rarely penetrated. Working my day job has been tedious beyond compare – my mind constantly drifting to this horrible, horrible sadness. Much like Obi-Wan Kenobi, I felt – literally felt – a thousand voices cry out in pain and then immediate silence. My bones are chilled – my sinew stretched. Humanity has suffered a deep wound in its inner thigh and I fear it’s a wound that won’t heal for a year or so. Rallying the troops (i.e. Americans, i.e. fleshpots) is in order more now than ever. Pray with me.

This being the Internet, it goes without saying that you’re already painfully aware. At approximately 11:10 PM yesterday evening, the famed Italian ocean liner, the Andrea Doria, collided with another vessel off the coast of Nantucket Island. The Doria immediately started sinking and was attacked by octopi. The latest report shows that 46 people have perished in this horrific accident, which is 43 more than that NFLstravagant boating accident, involving free-agent defensive lineman Corey Smith. This is undoubtedly being etched into the history books in the “Really, Really Bad” chapter, next to The Spanish Inquisition and Swept Away. The date of July… Twenty-Fif…th… Hmmm… That can’t be right… Nineteen… Fifty-Six?... What the fuck? That’s 52 years ago. This has got to be a mistake. John Boy, what do you make of this?


No, not you… Get me Johnny T-T.


"What's Up, Gener?"

The fucking Doria sank 52 years ago? Did you know that? You said your friend told you it sank last night.


"My friend says a lot of things. Sometimes he's on and, well, sometimes he's not."

No shit, he’s not. His “breaking news” is over half a century old. Your source just made me look ridiculous in front of my readers.


“You don’t need help looking ridiculous, Intrigue. You do a good enough job of that yourself, you fucking sally. Go fuck yourself.”

So, it’s come to that. Getting told to “go fuck yourself” by a washed-up, Jonathan Taylor-Thomas on the World Wide Internet. Ignominious.

Ignominious and…

INTRIGUING!

What It Is In Vids: Volume One

As you may be aware, there is a source of entertainment on this planet called "video games." Some humans use video games as their ticket to escapism. Humans use consoles or PCs to play virtual basketball, drive virtual #77 Subaru Cusco Advan Imprezas, nimbly avoid virtual fried eggs in an attempt to construct giant virtual hamburgers and, of course, save virtual hot-ass princesses that put out.

For those not aware that video games exist, I’ll let Slick Rick briefly break down the advent for you.

Slick Rick? If you please?

"Here we go…
Once upon a time, not long ago,

When people played charades and lived life slow.

When pants were bells and justice stood,

And people were entertained like they ought ta good.

There lived a man named Allan Alcorn

Whose dreams included things like getting high scores - said,

'A-tar-i’s gonna make some cash.

Sellin’ that Pong and makin’ the dash…'

They sold that Pong and money came with ease

And out popped the V.G. industry.
Then Atari made anotha and a sista and a brotha

Got their parents on board and this fun was discovered…”


Ok, that’s enough. Now that I’ve stolen a chunk of your brain matter and stamped “video games” on it, you’ll be happy to know updates will be squeezed into that brain matter on a semi-regular basis in volumes titled “What It Is in Vids”. This is the first volume. DON’T WORRY! The first volume will hurt a little, but it won’t last long. After this one, you’ll notice that each subsequent volume will feel better and better. While the volumes won’t be informative or helpful, they will certainly deliver a nougat-filled center of clever and a “YAY” or “NAY” from Uncle Intrigue.
Dragon Age: Origins


Dragon Age: Origins is a role-playing game (RPG) coming out next week for the PC, Xbox 360 and PS3. It looks like it will be fantastic in 5,000 ways . For those of you familiar with Baldur’s Gate, you probably already know about this game. For those of you familiar with Baldur’s Gate that DON’T know about this game, I’ve got eight words for you, “You should buy this game,… man… or woman.” (Fuck, why did I say eight words? That was close.)

This game has been in development for about 5 years. Needless to say, it’s highly anticipated to those in the know. It will kill from a sales perspective and could kill from a real-life perspective, given the proper amount of acceleration and/or suspension of disbelief. It looks to be a deep, plot-rich, heavily detailed RPG that promises between 40-80 hours of solid gameplay.

What garned some attention and ire from the gaming community was EA’s use of Marilyn Manson’s opus “This Is the New Shit” in its initial trailer. Please view below for instant titillation.



Seem over the top and inappropriate for an RPG video game? No worries. That’s why Jesus created the Hawaii Five-O Theme Song.



To make my opinion known, old Geners gives Dragon Age: Origins a hearty YAY. It should be purchased and played at any cost. Don’t have a gaming unit? Fuck you, buy it. Business bad? Fuck you, buy it. Place got hit by lightning, huh? Fuck you, buy it. That’s not nice. I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is this game will be highly pleasurable in ways both cerebral and spiritual.

And thus concludes the first installment of What it Is in Vids. Stop groaning! They all won’t be this long. I hoped you enjoyed it and have not evaporated. That would be disconcerting.

Disconcerting and…

INTRIGUING!

MySpace still has it!

I am one of the many millions of people around the world that still has their e-vestigial tail, aka a Myspace account. I pay my ridiculous fucking phone bill more often and cheerfully then I check that old web-buick.

If Firewalls could talk...

However the great thing about abandoned fads is being able to observe those who stubbornly hold onto that glory, becoming illogically standoffish for whatever came in its wake.

(Granted this can go the other way. After disco came and fell, the backlash was violent. Too bad too, Disco fucking rules. But basically the bridge and tunnel riff-raff got Springsteen so really it was just god's way of letting the beautiful people do coke off each other's penises in their own company if you want to split hairs. But again, I bet Discotheques were basically the Garden of People Watching Eden in the 80's.)

I'm not here to ''dutch rudder' both social networking giants, or really even to disparage one or the other (seriously!)

No, I am here to celebrate whats left of Myspace.

Left in the wake of the under dressed tweens and mirror shots; something much more beautiful arose. Have you ever gone to Walmart after midnight? These are your people. The salt of the earth. Not bad people. Somewhat honest people. They don't get into the 'fads' us go-go hipster douche bags get into. Not in time for the fad anyhow.

No. They talk straight, they mean what they say (kinda,) and they hold nothing back.

Like our friend, A.J.



Wait...what? NOTHING in your brain puts up a stop sign and says "private message"?

Thanks again, Myspace.

Yours in honor,
Reno

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Treasury Dept. Punishes Bailout Recipients with Pay Raise



As you may have seen on the news ticker scrolling underneath the 24-hour balloon boy coverage last week,
the Treasury Dept. announced big cuts in compensation for top execs at companies that received bailout packages (AIG, Citi, Bank of America, GM, GMAC, Chrysler and Chrysler Financial).

Well, according to a Wall Street Journal report this morning, pay czar Kenneth Feinberg did slash TOTAL compensation by roughly half.

Turns out, he also gave them a raise.

Confused?

I'm sure Czar Feinberg is hoping you are.

Seems after slashing compensation, poor Kenny started getting a little executive push back for his measures.

Apparently some corporate heads thought K-Fein's actions would make it difficult for companies to retain their top talent. (You know, the same top talent that ran the world's strongest economy into the shitter? Yep, wouldn't want to lose that talent.)

So, obviously not wanting to screw himself out of a high-paying banking position once he left the U.S. Treasury, he agreed to boost the base salaries of the 136 employees under his watch to an average of $437,896.

This includes DOUBLED salaries for 13 of the 21 employees at 34% Gov't-owned Citigroup, who, by the way, recently slashed my personal credit line in half for a tardy payment completed unrelated to the credit card I have with them.

Sometimes the phrase "Go fuck yourself" seems altogether too cocksuckingmotherfucking cordial, doesn't it?

Additionally - the WSJ article states - this move also seems to contradict Feinberg's promise to do away with the short-term incentives and guaranteed cash that fueled the reckless actions leading to economic disaster, and instead focus more on tying pay to long-term performance.

But whatever, yo! What do we have to worry about anyway? The Dow is up! Billions are being made again on Wall Street! Fiscal crisis averted! Oh...wait.


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Creationism: An Illustrated Account by Blaine Fridley

"Left Behind"

There is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING GAY ABOUT THIS.

I admit...It was sort of sexy when they marketed this thing toward women. But the new "ShakeWeight for Men"? Well, I'm no homophobe, certainly...So more power to 'em, I guess. Rock on with your piston-pumping selves. I just reserve the right to point out that while I have zero problem with it, there's no point in pretending that this thing isn't somehow even gayer than Richard Simmons and Clay Aiken wearing pink feather boas and mesh half-shirts with the nipples cut out while Eiffel-Towering David Geffen on the Astroglide-sponsored float as the Pride parade snakes its way through the Tenderloin in San Francisco on Harvey Milk Day. Not that there's anything WRONG with that.

Or, maybe it's just that every single dude in this video looks like he soaked in a tub full of Crisco for a half hour before getting in front of the camera:



Feel the burn of the "rapid, short and POWERFUL thrusts" gentlemen! If you're not "covered in sweat" by "30-45 seconds into it," you get TRIPLE your money back! You'll find yourself saying, "I haven't had a pump like this for a long time!"

"Don't make eye contact...don't make eye contact...SHIT!"

Note - It apparently also helps if you grimace with the effort of keeping the thing aimed at your face as it pumps away in your tight little fists:

Monday, October 26, 2009

Hot Sh!t: The Slew



Listen.

Enjoy.

Repeat as necessary.

Friday, October 23, 2009

You Stay Classy, Philly

Champions of Society: Dennis "La-Z-Boy" LeRoy


Attempting to make jokes here feels a little like adding my own brush strokes to "Starry Night".

Why mess with a masterpiece?

Man pleads guilty to DWI in motorized La-Z-Boy

by The Associated Press
DULUTH, Minn. October 22, 2009, 09:16 pm ET


A Minnesota man has pleaded guilty to driving his motorized La-Z-Boy chair while drunk. A criminal complaint says 62-year-old Dennis LeRoy Anderson told police he left a bar in the northern Minnesota town of Proctor on his chair after drinking eight or nine beers.

Prosecutors say Anderson's blood alcohol content was 0.29, more than three times the legal limit, when he crashed into a parked vehicle in August 2008. He was not seriously injured.

Police said the chair was powered by a converted lawnmower and had a stereo and cup holders.

Sixth Judicial District Judge Heather Sweetland stayed 180 days of jail time Monday and ordered two years of probation for Anderson. His attorney, David Keegan, did not immediately return a call for comment.
(Above) Both Louvre-worthy.



Thursday, October 22, 2009

Close, but missing 8lbs of human pushed out an orifice

Diary of Fools is about to get Mommified, most likely to the utter horror of the other contributors. (HAHA!) But, I can't help but share this ridonkulously awesome video. Some brave (mentally unstable?) Aussie doctor decided he should figure out if men could handle the pain of childbirth.



To almost no mother's surprise, he cannot. And it's laughable that he only makes it, what, 2 hours? And that's with the aid of laughing gas - which, WTF? Laughing gas?? I mean, that's kind of like putting a band-aid on amputated arm. The smirk on the woman's face when Dr. Manpussy decides to give up is worth the entire 10 minute watch alone.

Dude should've totally taken that Al-Qaeda internship.



On Wednesday, authorities arrested 27-year-old Tarek Mehanna at his momma's house in an upscale Boston suburb.

According to the AP story, it seems Tarek had been conspiring to kill two prominent U.S. politicians and carry out a holy war by attacking shoppers in U.S. malls and American troops in Iraq.

Tarek's plans to participate in "violent jihad against American interests" (as opposed to "cuddly jihad against American interests") were derailed when he and his two co-terrorists were unable to obtain the requisite automatic weapons (Really? Couldn't find an automatic weapon? This is America, duder. Just ask any 14-year-old and they'll have an AK for you by noon).

Additionally, the AP story reported, other factors colluded to extinguish their jihadist flame - including the inability to catch on with a respected terrorist organization.

In fact, one of Tarek's jihad buddies, a man by the name of Ahmad Abousamra, was turned down by the Taliban for lack of experience.

Well...shit, man. How's somebody supposed to get terrorism experience if nobody is willing to give him a shot at gaining said terrorism experience?

And why call the position "Entry Level Insurgent" on your monster.com listing if you need prior experience? Sheesh.

Any recent college grad can feel his pain.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

DoF Shirt of the Week

The thing about polo shirts we like: Comfortable, easy, don't have to be ironed often, soaks up spilled beer nicely, considered 'dressing up' to most women.

The things we hate about polo shirts: We don't fucking play polo. Sure the Le Tigre is cute, but we're not Bjorn fucking Borg.

We at the Diary of Fools know this pain well, and we aim to fix it.

We present the NES controller shirt. Yeah, that bitch is embroidered.

So next time you feel like 'dressing up' we got you covered.

CLICK HERE TO SEE MORE

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Your Feel-Good Video of the Day

BEST. BIRTHDAY. EVER.


Things I Wish Were Jokes

Watch this video:

Are you fucking kidding me? This has to be a joke, right? I couldn't just have just watched a multicultural menagerie of attractive actors pleading me to spy on my neighbors, could I?

My favorites are the orange haired lady and the tiny blonde whose enormous, owl-like eyeballs might at any moment escape the restrictive confines of her undersized skull to strike out on their own modeling colored contact lenses.

"Have fun avoiding socket infections, Blondie. Me and Left-Eye are starting a web series, and we're gonna be famous. Bitch"

Creationism: An Illustrated Account by Blaine Fridley

Jesus and the DinoWars












Friday, October 16, 2009

Today in penis-confusing news

I'm just getting wind that the the Twitter-verse is all twitter-pated over something Meghan McCain did. Y'know...Meghan McCain? Daughter of Senator John McCain, the senior Senator from the great state of Arizona and failed GOP Presidential nominee? She's a Conservative blogger for The Daily Beast? Try to keep up, hombre. Here's a visual aid, in case your cerebellum needs a goose:


Anyway, looks like Conservatives are peeing fire because Megz up and posted a picture of herself on her account. I mean, yeah...that kind of shit happens all the time on the internet. So much so that if you look up "narcissism" in the latest edition of Oxford's Unabridged, it just says, "See: FACEBOOK." But Meghan's crime was doing so while being all hot and Republican at the same time. And that doesn't fly with the "base." Of course, the "base" is largely made up of a bunch of old white dudes who can't look at a picture of Ann Coulter without excusing themselves to go quietly masturbate in abject shame, so whatever.

I'm curious, so I'm thinking I'll fire up the Googelz and see what all of the fuss is about. How bad can it be, really?

Let's see here...

Oh. Oh, MY.


Sweet, sneaky Jesus in a chicken basket.

Oh-kaaay...Straight off the bat, I can see TWO big reasons why they might be spazzing out a little about this. For one, she's reading an Andy Warhol book, and it's a known fact that Warhol was a baby-eating, kitten-raping, pedophile gay Socialist arugula-farmer. Second, headbands are SO 1996. Oh, and I guess they might also be slightly put out by the fact that she's rocking some pretty eye-poppingly spectacular sweater-meat, there.

Then, following the sort of near-instantaneous backlash that was impossible before Saint Timothy of Berners-Lee blessed us with the sacred gift of HTML, Meggie-pie Tweeted this:

"So I took a fun picture not thinking anything about what I was wearing but apparently anything other than a pantsuit I am a slut."

As much as I HATE agreeing with anything an admitted Republican says, she has a point. As she's also since said on her blog after this whole thing exploded, "...It's not like I was caught making a sex tape. I certainly didn't pose nude for Playboy. And I hadn't even exposed a nipple," which also happens to be true, sadly. Oh, and for readers born after 1984, who don't know what "Playboy" is? Ask your dad.

If nothing else, the dust-up here ought to illustrate to everyone just how fucking puritanical this country is, and the Right Wing of it in particular. Meghan McCain (despite the fact that her mother looks like one of Madame Tussaud's less successful likenesses come to "life") is an attractive young woman. And she's not showing any more skin in that shot than any garden-variety chick her age exposes to the air on any given weekend tavern excursion. But she's being held to a different standard because of the fact that she identifies with the party of religious oppression, anti-choice legislation, and other varieties of backward thinking. Y'know...the same sort of "traditional American values" that made voters give her dad the gas face.

However, to her credit, in addressing the weirdo repressed sex-negative brouhaha over this mini-mess, Meg's remained staunchly unapologetic. Her blog also says, "To be honest, I don't feel that I have anything to feel ashamed of. I've always embraced my curves and will continue to do so."

Hey, rock on, Leggo-my-Meggo! You parade them puppies! Besides, I'm willing to bet that even though there are plenty of schmucks who'd ding you for it, they'd kill for a shot to "embrace your curves," too. You'll know which ones they are. They're the white-knight types who actually tried to get away with chiming in on the picture's comments thread in order to attempt to un-ironically tell you just how very beautiful your eyes are.

And I mean, yeah...They ARE. But...DAMN.
Nice pillows, by the way.

RIP Captain Lou

Whether you know him as a boisterous professional wrestler or as the creepy live action Mario, you should be sad now because he's dead.

Here he is sneaking Tabasco into Rowdy Roddy Piper's spaghetti:

And some Mario action:

Christians are WACKY.

So, yeah. Apparently, THIS exists.



Survey time!
I blame this hilariously cock-shaped cookie cutter on:
A clueless Christian dolt who genuinely had no idea
A subversive designer making a statement about religiously indoctrinating kids using cartoons
I don't know, but I need one of these for a bachelorette party
I'm not sure why, but Obama
ugg boots sale


Ha ha ha ha! PENIS!

Hot Sh!t: So awesome, it actually HURTS.

If you've never bought anything from ThinkGeek.com, excuse me for a moment while I narrow my eyes at you, and regard you with vague suspicion. If you've never even BEEN to ThinkGeek.com, you are so far off my buddy list that it's like you never even fucking existed in the FIRST place.

ThinkGeek is a nerd paradise of super-dorky gadgety shit. And there's so much of it that after just minutes of browsing, anyone who's even dimly aware of the concept of "the internet" will undoubtedly find something there that makes them squeal like a 13-year-old girl who just saw that sparkly vampire movie douchebag hanging around outside the Abercrombie and Fitch. Want some freeze-dried astronaut ice cream? There it is. A pen that's a video spycam? You've come to the right place. An electric t-shirt that has a built-in wi-fi "hot spot" detector? Motherfucker, ThinkGeek will hook. Your. Azz. UP.

Of course you don't need Laser-Guided Scissors. But now, you know that
they exist, and you WON'T BE ABLE TO LIVE WITHOUT THEM. You're welcome.


But recently, they've outdone themselves.

Last April Fool's Day, ThinkGeek featured a gag product. They figured geeks, being smarter than the average bear, would look at a calendar and realize that their collective leg was being pulled. However, they failed to take into account the sheer overwhelming power of raw nerd lust. Within minutes of this very-not-real item showing up on the website, several thousand very-ACTUALLY-real "orders" started pouring in by the bucketload. By mid-afternoon, ThinkGeek had created a phenomenon...and a gigantic P.R. problem. Hell hath no fury like thousands of disappointed nerds with internet access.

The fact was, ThinkGeek had come up with an idea for a product so panty-dampeningly awesome that they should have expected the demand. Problem being, the item in question would be near-motherfucking-impossible to actually produce. Not impossible within the laws of time and space, mind you, but almost. No, what made it damn-near impossible was something typically even LESS flexible than physics: licensing, trademark, and rights issues.

But then something deeply fucking awesome happened.

The actual legal holder of the trademarks it would have been necessary for ThinkGeek to have licensed in order to produce the item caught wind of the kerfuffle. And, lo and behold, they thought this thing was just as pants-shittingly fantastic as the whole rest of the Nerdrosphere. So, phone calls were made. Details were ironed out. And when the dust settled, the item that had started out as a gag and that had inspired thousands of orders was now an actual goddamned thing you could legitimately buy, bring home, and weep hot tears of dweeb joy over.

This is one of the rarest of beasts in all of creation: not just a "win-win," but a triple play - a "win-win-WIN." ThinkGeek was happy. The owner of the trademark was happy. And the nerds? Some of them experienced their first orgasms NOT involving elf porn.

Enough dancing around. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: The Tauntaun Sleeping Bag.

So. Much. Mother. Fucking. WIN.

Yes, the lining has a print which resembles intestines. Yes, the fluffy, lovable head doubles as a pillow. And yes, the zipper pull, which allows you to get inside and experience the life-affirming warmth therein, is a tiny replica of Luke's lightsaber...So you can pretend like you're Han Solo, slicing the sucker open as you kneel upon the perma-frozen tundra of Hoth. SQUEEE!!!

Y'know, I'm not even the world's biggest Star Wars fan, but I am a carbon-based life-form. And Star Wars is like the fucking Beatles...a pop-culture touchstone so universal that even people who claim to hate it at least admit a grudging respect. Suffice it to say, I want THREE of these.

Only in the age of the internet could something like this happen. ThinkGeek cooked this thing up as a gag, and duped up a sample. Nerds everywhere filled streams and rivers with spontaneous genital fluid. And LucasFilm was all like, "Hey, fuck the lawsuit, we want one of those, too. Let's do this." Big ups to them. That exhibits a level of cool that ALMOST makes up for retcon-pasting Hayden Christensen into the ghost trio at the end of the special edition of "Jedi."

(You're still on the hook for Jar Jar though, George. And yes, I'm well aware of the Yoda Backpack. That settles us up on Li'l Vader screaming "YA-HOO!" in "Phantom Menace", but you still have a lot to answer for, you fucking bearded bastard.)


For added fun, say, "And I thought they smelled bad...on the OUTSIDE!" every single time you take this thing away from your kid and huck it into the washing machine. See how long it takes him to start rolling his eyes and mouthing it along with you.

From the Diary of (Very) Mad (Half) Black Man: Fuck You Keith Bardwell

Yes, fuck you Keith Bardwell. You simple-minded, backwoods jackhole of a human being. For those unfamiliar with Mr. Bardwell, he is a Louisiana justice of the peace who lovingly performs wedding ceremonies for the couples of Tangipahoa Parish - unless they're interracial.

Bardwell asserts that he is not a racist, citing the "facts" that interracial marriages do not typically last and that the children of these unions are not accepted by society. Oh yea, he also has "piles and piles of black friends." Yea, I've never heard that one before.

But in truth, I must say I agree with Bardwell. Interracial marriages do not typically last long and their children do have difficulty being accepted by society. However, in the U.S. of A. of 2009 most marriages of any race or combination do not last long. I cite declining morals and the media's proliferation of unrealisitc expectations of the blessed sacrament, you blame skin color. Po-tey-toh, Po-tah-toh eh? And if we learned nothing else from the late John Hughes it's that all children are going to feel rejected by society. Rent the Breakfast Club, it's all right there with nary a mulatto in sight. If you need to borrow a VCR just let us know, we'll bring one right over.

So,Keith Bardwell,take your can of Spam, milk carton of corn liquor and your 50's era social opinions and get back in your trailer. And please do shut up, if only for the sake of the children.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

McGangBang Meet Your Match!

I, like many of you loyal readers, first read about the McGangBang here almost three months ago. I was immediately shocked, disheartened in humanity, and…intrigued.

See, dear friends, I have a problem. Though I am normally pretty mindful of the food I ingest, I have a marked weakness for ingeniously grotesque food items. The creatively vomitastic, if you will. I don’t exactly seek these items out, but they seem to find me. The Luther Burger, grasshopper tacos, Scotch Eggs – all have presented themselves and been summarily consumed.

But I was scared of the McGangBang. True, but not for the reasons one might think. To be honest, I wasn’t terribly impressed by it, and was frightened by the prospect that I might be completely underwhelmed after eating one. What would that say about me?

Well, about a month ago I decided to throw caution to the wind and give the McGangBang a go. I skipped right on down to my local Mickey D’s, slapped one together aaaand…. M’eh.

I’ve been more impressed by the amount of meat in some sushi rolls I’ve inhaled. It seriously wasn’t even worth the blog post I planned to write about the McGangBang experience. What was I to do? Blaine would surely have my head for this. Then, after a month of hiding out, it suddenly came to me...

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce, for your culinary delight, a Diary of Fools exclusive menu first – The McDP!!

The McDP (aptly named for its ability to allow the two sandwiches to cause exponentially more pleasure and damage than either could ever dream of on their own) consists of an entire McDonald’s Southern Style Chicken Sandwich jammed tightly between the two buns of the ever-classic Double Quarter Pounder with cheese. Though the semi-coma I fell into while consuming this masterpiece prevents me from remembering most of the appearance, I will share the following which I found scribbled on greasy notepad after awakening:

scrumtrulescent

melted cheese substance coats entire mouth easing ingestion

Pickles!

crunchy and succulent

I feel fat

is this real life?

I'm convinced this is not animal meat

ashamed...

Teach Me, Uncle Richard!

Learning the ABCs with our 37th president!

Today's letter:
Cc
"C" is for Cup.

"Now the Mexicans are a different cup of tea. At the present time, they have a heritage, but at the present time they steal, they're dishonest, they do a lot of other things, but they do have some concept of family life at least. They don't live like a bunch of dogs, which the Negroes do live like."
-1971, Nixon Tapes

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

She's a MAN, Baby!

One doesn't have to live in Minnesota to have heard about the bottomless pit of greatness that is Michele Bachmann. She's a fighter for the little man, a caller-out of those anti-American, fighter of homo kindergartners and tells it like it is (in Fridley)! But I ask you this:

Are we misunderstanding her?


This, my friends, is Michele Bachmann's action figure. Notice anything strange? Out of place? Uncharacteristic? PERHAPS THE 2-PUNCH LESBIAN POWER SUIT AND MATCHING DYKE BOOTS?? Not since my diabetic, frankensteinian 7th grade music teacher have I seen such orthopedic monstrosities. It's not all suspicious though... Crazy eyes? Check. Breast implants? Check. Dark complexion? Che- wait, what?? Michele Bachmann is a Latina lesbian? You heard it here first.

This day in History: October 14th

1944: German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel commits suicide rather than face execution for allegedly conspiring against Adolf Hitler.

Erwin Rommel gives historians headaches.

It should be a pretty cut-and-dried picture. Rommel was, after all, a Nazi. He was one of the highest-ranking and most widely-decorated officers in the Axis Armed forces during World War II, as well as one of the most skilled wagers of desert warfare ever. Under his command, the Afrikacorps were a nearly unstoppable machine, conquering huge swaths of land on that continent. Similarly, his "Ghost Division" Panzer command ate up chunks of France like a day-old baguette due to its ability to attack from what seemed like thin goddamned air. So, yeah. Bad guy. Boo. Hiss. I'm guessing I could've stopped at, "he was a Nazi," and that's more than enough for 98% of everyone.

However, at the risk of making it sound like I'm actually defending one of the primary architects of the Third Reich's Military machine, students of the war also universally agree that Rommel was, at the core, a fundamentally decent human being.

"Don't judge me."

Yeah, that's tough to swallow, and incongruous with what we've been taught. But his record more or less backs that shit up.

To wit:

For one, his commands were some of the only German regiments NOT charged with any war crimes (nor was he, posthumously or otherwise). By all accounts, he ran the Afrikacorps with extreme honor and chivalry, treating prisoners humanely, and with respect as fellow soldiers. He openly criticized his closest allies if he felt he was not given adequate support. He refused to willingly or knowingly kill civilians. And perhaps most tellingly, Rommel was not an anti-Semite. He regularly and openly defied several orders to kill Jews. This seems to indicate that while he may have been a career soldier, he was only really in it for the nationalism, patriotism, and belief in country it represented. In other words, the only right reasons anyone on any side EVER joins up.

"Okay, sure," you're thinking. "But isn't being 'the most honorable Nazi' still sort of like being 'valedictorian of the special school'?" And yes, you'd be right. Except, there is the small matter of his self-inflicted death to consider.

A bit of background: toward the end of WWII, Der Führer didn't quite know what to DO with Rommel. I mean, despite being the most evil motherfucker in the history of the universe, Hitler at least had enough brains to serve his own self-interest. Sure, Rommel was FAR from on board with the Final Solution, and was regularly subordinate when it came to enforcing the policies thereof. But the guy was just so goddamned efficient, skilled, and determined that he was practically one whole leg of the empire Hitler was trying to build.

He just wasn't RUTHLESS enough. Rommel had a heart and mind of his own, and refused to embody the politics endemic to the whole movement. So, even a megalomaniacal fuck like Hitler, who demanded absolute fealty, was willing to keep him around because the pros of doing so outweighed the cons. I mean, shit. Here was a guy who not only didn't bitch about fighting in the goddamned desert, but achieved results besides.

"I'll go with the pastrami, I guess. No pickles, please."

Plus, the guy was incredibly popular back home. Stories of Rommel's exploits and successes on the front had kept morale up in the Motherland, where the general public knew little to nothing of the hush-hush atrocities being committed in their collective name, nor the Big Plan. So a straight-up guy like Erwin became a folk hero. They cut stories out of the newspaper, and toasted him at the pubs. Ergo, it simply wouldn't DO for Der Führer to smack Rommel down. The more they fixated on Rommel, he reasoned, the more they wouldn't ask questions about what had happened to the Goldmans from down the hall, and why all the Synagogues were actively on fire.

Still, there was a wedge. The more Rommel defied orders and got promoted anyway, the more other officers started seeing what they could get away with, too. Holes opened up. Factions were formed. Information about some of the shit that was actually happening at the top of the pyramid started floating down to people that had been deliberately kept in the dark. And slowly but surely, a lot of high-ranking German officials started to get that sinking, "Oh, SHIT" feeling as they realized that THEY were, in fact, the bad guys. And, being a by-all-accounts stand-up guy, Rommel was one of the ones who realized he was fighting for a cause he not only didn't believe in...But found to be morally repugnant.

So, shit started to get real.

Not pictured: Throat full of bile. Both of them.

The end of the war was rapidly approaching. It wasn't long before the failed "July 20th" bomb-assassination plot intended to kill Hitler good and dead came to pass. And, though it was not successful in actually offing the asshole, it was nonetheless a Pyrrhic victory for the burgeoning German resistance. I mean, yeah...In the wake of the attack, Hitler had the Gestapo round up more than 7,000 people he suspected of being in on it, and 5,000 of them were summarily executed. But while you might suspect that turning the lights off on everyone you even suspected to be tangentially related to the resistance would literally kill it, you just can't disappear seven-goddamned-thousand people, and NOT come off looking like a paranoid, despotic sack of shit. Which, of course, Hitler was.

So, even though he figured he'd exterminated anyone with the merest shred of rebellion in their soul, these things have a way of backlashing...Which meant that a big ol', "hey...WAIT a minute" presently showed up to bite Hitler right straight in the ass. And it was this growing opposition that ultimately helped the whole ball of wax start to melt down from inside, eroding the foundation, and making victory for the Allies a goal that was within reach.

Too bad Erwin got called on the carpet before the liberation. Rommel was one of the 7,000 peeps 'Dolf wound up corralling, as apparently, one of the co-conspirators had named names prior to the Gestapo torturing him to death. Rommel's had come up. Even worse, Hitler had intercepted some letters from the main organizer of the civilian Resistance, who had written on several occasions that Rommel was a potential supporter and an acceptable military leader to be placed in a position of responsibility should their coup-d'etát succeed. As if that wasn't enough, Nazi party officials in France reported that Rommel had rather extensively bagged on what he saw as widespread Nazi incompetence, corruption, and war crime while engaging in operations there.

Herr Chancellor had finally reached his limit of the sort of shit up with which he simply could no longer put. A meeting with Rommel was convened, and under duress, Rommel admitted that yes...He'd had prior knowledge of the assassination plot he'd failed to disclose to the Führer. But he also told Hitler that he had opposed outright killing him, for fear of touching off Civil War, and because he feared Hitler would turn into a martyr. So, yeah. More than one person puts Rommel mano-a-mano with Adolf Goddamned Hitler, telling him to his hideous Chaplin-'stached face that killin' was too good for him. That he'd instead hoped Hitler would be captured, and subsequently made to stand trial for his heinous war crimes.

Nazi? Yeah. But ya gotta admit, the guy had some brass fucking balls.

In a crazy twist of bizarro fate, Hitler actually had something like respect for Rommel's candor. So, he gave the Field Marshal a choice: He could be stripped of his Military standing and sent to stand trial at the "Court of Military Honor" (a kangaroo tribunal that had never once found in favor of the defendant), or he could up and off himself...in which case his family would not only escape prosecution as co-conspirators, but would receive his full military pension. He'd also get an Officer's funeral, and his "crime" would not be widely disclosed to colleagues, or the public.

For a dude like Rommel, it wasn't a choice. He quietly explained the situation to his wife and son, and then got into a car driven by a fellow officer, where he was driven out of town. From there, reports differ. He was either shot, or downed a cyanide capsule. The detail nobody disagrees on is that he woke up dead the next morning.

As for the official story of Rommel's death, Hitler was typically self-serving, but just as uncharacteristically respectful. It was reported to the public that Rommel had either keeled over from a heart attack, or bit it due to his injuries from an ambush on his staff car. In an even more baffling move, Hitler ordered an official day of mourning the day Rommel was buried with the promised-as-a-condition-of-his-death military honors. However, as a final "Fuck You" to the Reich, Rommel had specified that no swastikas or other political paraphernalia were to be displayed at the service.

A memorial marker on the spot where Rommel said, "you can't fire me, I quit."
The plaque on it reads: "On this spot Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was forced to
commit suicide on October 14th, 1944. He took the cup of poison and sacrificed
himself, to save the lives of his family from Hitler's henchmen."


Long story short (too late, I know), eventually, Nuremberg happened and everything came out in the wash. Thing is, even people who'd helped bring Rommel's ass in, other high-ranking Reich officials who HAD committed war crimes and were standing trial for them...guys who were dyed-in-the-wool anti-Semites (or at least, too pussy to stand up to extermination orders), and who had lacked the spine to conspire to take down their leader once it became clear just how very, very evil he'd been...? These guys? They defended his memory. They spoke of him during the trials as having been honorable, fair, guiltless of the same sort of large-scale horror that they themselves were being tried for, and ultimately...right. So even though Rommel fought for what everyone eventually came to realize was the wrong side, even his sworn enemies agreed in short order that Rommel had still landed on the right side of history. Not completely clean, unbruised, or un-tainted, but still with whatever was left of his heart firmly in the right place.

Total disclosure: I full well realize that coming up in the heezy and all but straight-up defending a dirty, filthy Nazi will probably get my ass chewed off. At the very least, I hope my in-laws don't read this, or it'll be a mighty tense Hanukkah. But the whole fucking point stands, and remains relevant. In case you still need to be tenderly taken by the hand and LED to it, the gist of it is that hardly anything is ever black-and-white. Stereotypes are always more evil than the people who embody their worst generalizations. It is, after all, criminally simple to dehumanize an enemy. Happens all the time, and is practically considered essential to modern warfare. And yes, being the "most respectable Nazi" is EXACTLY like being the "least-offensive-smelling puddle of beer-and-taco diarrhea."

But sometimes people get caught up in bullshit not of their own design, then STILL manage to rise above the circumstances. Hell, if Rommel was able to look around at the most shameful clusterfuck in modern history, say, "this shit is DEFINITELY not right," and then work for positive change from within the mountain of excrement he lived inside...Then maybe YOU can get off your ass and do something constructive with your life. Get a little perspective.

And thus concludes my attempt to extinguish the last, weakest, and most tremblingly precious ember of hope I may have EVER had of running for public office. See you guys in the murky mists of misunderstanding.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

FREE HOT ALYSSA MILANO PIC IN THIS POST!


Just a quick word on Fox's Glee.

And yes, I realize the above sentence is an admission that I watch Glee.

To that, I'll tell you exactly what I told people in the fall of '97 when I briefly became addicted to Melrose Place.

Fuck off.

Also, Alyssa Milano. What the hell was I supposed to do?

(Above) Alyssa Milano. You expected me not to tune-in to this every week? Wait. That's not Alyssa Milano. That's… that's Who's the Boss co-star Katherine Helmond. Hot in her right, but…

… ahhhh, that's the stuff.

Anyway, Glee.

Taken for what it is, it's enjoyable in a "eating a whole bag of Cheetos" sort of a way. A delicious ride, but ultimately somewhat regrettable and most certainly impossible to sustain yourself on. Additionally, the stain on your dignity is every bit as difficult to remove as the caked-on layers of blaze-orange cheeze powder on your fingertips.

But again, it's pretty fun in the immediate sense, so my lack of self-control dictates that I watch.

First and foremost, Glee is a show of stereotypes (though the characters' lines are almost always delivered with tongue placed firmly in cheek).

Roll Call: Big Dumb Joe Quarterback? Here. The Hot Popular Cheerleader? Here. The Type A Perfectionist? Present. The Handicapped Kid? I hear his wheelchair squeaking down the hall now. And, of course, no "who's who" of TV stereotypes is complete without…

{drum roll}

… Fat Sassy Black Girl!
"Oh no you di'int!

You KNOW she's "all up in this piece! Haaaaaay {neck circle, fingersnap}!"

Now, as I've mentioned, Glee is tolerable-teetering-on-enjoyable for the fact that the show is self-aware and the stereotypes cartoonish -- riffing on the High School Musical archetypes while embracing them at the same time.

As an added bonus, each character has its own little "stereotype shattering" twist, too:

Big Dumb Joe Quarterback turns out to be a great singer. Hot Popular Cheerleader is the head of the abstinence club, while Type A Perfectionist actually has a healthy, realistic take on sex. The Handicapped Kid becomes one of the school's most popular.

Hahaha… just kidding.

Handicapped kids can't become popular.

But the point I'm attempting to make is that these overdone characters are lampooned rather effectively and for the most part, played for decent chuckles.

That is, except for one: Fat Sassy Black Girl.

It's not that she isn't a spot-on stereotype sketch. She totally is.

When she tries out for glee club, guess what she sings?

Yup.

You got it.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T!"

Because that's the only song Fat Sassy Black Girl knows, derrr! Well, that and "Amazing Grace" (but only if oversung 5 whole levels past "Christina Aguilera").

So yeah, it's not that.

It's the fact that she's easily the most insulting TV/movie stereotype out there. The worst fallback for the laziest writers.

I wasn't chuckling at Fat Sassy Black Girl for the same reason I don't chuckle at the Cleveland Indian's Chief Wahoo logo.

I found her offensive.

Which - unless I'm giving them too much credit - means the writers of Glee are doing their jobs correctly. Though, it did take me an episode to realize (before I knew what the show was "about") that every time I viscerally bemoaned Glee's Fat Sassy Black Girl's proclamations of "keeping it real", I was actually viscerally bemoaning every Fat Sassy Black Girl I've had to endure in my lifetime. Eureka: Glee's Fat Sassy Black Girl isn't a continuation, it's an examination.

And exposing/magnifying the facepalm-inducing ridiculousness of Fat Sassy Black Girl may just be the show's greatest glory.

At least, that's what I'm going with.

And yes, I seriously do watch Glee.

Fuck off.