Today's Darwin Award Nominee

From CNN.com:

A man died after his car plunged 600 feet off the edge of the Grand Canyon's South Rim, authorities said Tuesday.

The Arizona park's regional communications center received several reports of a car driving off the edge about 6 a.m. Monday, according to a written statement.

"Upon arriving at the scene, investigators found tire tracks leading to the edge...and received reports of a single occupant in a blue passenger car driving over the edge," the statement said.

Rescue personnel descended on ropes and found the vehicle about 600 feet into the canyon. The man's body was recovered shortly afterward, the statement said.

The man has not been identified.

Hey, that's an easy mistake to make. Some of us hit potholes, some of us skim a little too close to curbs...And apparently, still others of us are such gormless dolts that we absent-mindedly navigate our vehicles into crevasses so vast, they're visible from outer fucking space.

Apparently, authorities have not yet ruled the death a suicide. But for the victim's sake, it had better have been. Because if not, I'm incredibly surprised he possessed to mental capacity to have survived to the age where it was possible to attain a drivers' license.

This Day in History: July 14th

1789- French Revolutionaries storm the Bastille and signal the start of the French Revolution. Scholars maintain its possible they were mad because they knew how awful the movie "Marie Antoinette" would be 217 years later.

1099- Jerusalem captured by Christian Knights in first crusade. Many overheard saying, "what's the big fucking deal with this place, anyhow?" afterward.

1798- Sedition Act becomes Federal Law, and marks Alexander Hamilton as the 18th century's George W. Bush.

Banner Banality: Dissecting Advertising's Lowest Form.

If Internet banner ads are known for anything, it's subtlety.

Subtlety and class.

"Flamingo Las Vegas: Go Get Wet" ??

Hmm.

Well then.

To be fair, it is slightly more refined than their original concept:

"Flamingo Las Vegas: Stick your dick in it!"

Friday Funk: Hird

Great Fan Video.


And their classic "Getting Closer"

Your "Ewww!" of the Week

Oh, Jesus CHRIST.

I first heard rumblings of this in the tabloids a few weeks ago, but you know how tabloids are. They slander and speculate, and if they're wrong (which they are 98.5% of the time) they just say they got some bad information. But when they're right, they never let you forget it. The Enquirer, f'rinstance, usually busies themselves with inventing new euphemisms for "obese" in order to write about Kirstie Alley, but they'll no doubt be calling attention to the "fact" that they supposedly "broke" the John Edwards affair well before the traditional media for years to come. And Perez Hilton may spend most of his day using MS Paint to ham-fisted'ly draw pixelated spunk onto Hugh Jackman's upper lip, but the only time his mouth isn't running about how he was the first one to "out" Lance Bass is while he has a cock jammed into it.

But. This is one instance where I REALLY wish they'd been wrong...But it doesn't seem like they were. Because the rumblings are getting louder. It's now being picked up by legitimate Fourth Estate entities that, apparently, Morgan Freeman is fucking his step-granddaughter E'dena Hines.

Let me just let that sink in for a minute.

Morgan Freeman. Is fucking. His STEP-GRANDDAUGHTER.

And yes. It's THAT Morgan Freeman.

OH MY GOD ARE YOU SERIOUS WHAT THE HELL

Morgan Freeman. "Red" Redding. Hoke Colburn. "Easy Reader." GOD. Morgan Freeman is so well-respected, so possessed of rationality, depth and intelligence that if you look up "gravitas" in the dictionary, there's a picture of his face next to it. He's been Hollywood's go-to-guy for zen-like, elder-statesman authority for what seems like decades.

And now...he's fucking his step-granddaughter. And I'm gonna keep saying that until I believe it. Especially because it gets WORSE.

Morgan Freeman is 73. E'dena is 27. Sure, whatever. Not that it wouldn't STILL be creepier than shit even if they WEREN'T related, but lopsided-age relationships happen often enough that someone coined the cutesy term "May-December romance" specifically to describe them. However, most reports that are discussing this even in the legitimate media all reveal the following nugget of revolting intel:

"Sources claim the 73-year-old carried on a decade-long affair with his 27-year-old step-granddaughter E'Dena Hines."

A decade. That's 10 years. And she's 27. Now, I wasn't a math major by any stretch of the imagination, but my desk at Diary HQ came equipped with a fucking calculator. For those of you who are a little slower on the uptake, that means he's been slipping her the sausage since she was a junior in High School.

Still not thoroughly off your feed yet? Because I'm not finished.

"E'dena is the granddaughter of Morgan's first wife Jeanette, and Freeman and his estranged second wife Myrna had raised her since she was a young child."

So. That means he had brought her up from a young age, in his home, as though she were his daughter. And then, somewhere around the time when the ink was still drying on her driver's license, he was already dragging her into the back seat. In other words, there was a day approximately in the neighborhood of back-to-school shopping for Freshman year when Freeman had to have looked at her and thought to himself, "Boy...she's really starting to fill out."

I don't think I am ever...EVER going to stop throwing up.

To make matters even MORE socially-unacceptable, photos like the one at left are the ones all of the wire services are attaching to this story. Why? Well, because they've already got 'em on file. And, um...WHY? Because for some time, he's been bringing her along as his "date" to premieres and other red-carpet-type shit. Which, of course, nobody batted an eyelash over at the time. Matt Damon escorted his mother to the Oscars for a couple of years. I'm pretty sure Tom Hanks and Bruce Willis have tux'ed it up for the paparazzi with their daughters a few times each. So when Morgan Freeman did it, everyone said the same thing they did when the other guys squired relatives to glitzy events. "Aww. That is sweet and adorable. Look at what a great relationship he has with his family."

Except it ISN'T cute. At least, not in THIS instance. Whatever the fucking diametrically-opposed extreme OPPOSITE of "cute" is...this is it. Because even though what's happening with Freeman casts just the FAINTEST shadow of doubt on this opinion, I'm still willing to bet that Matt Damon wasn't porking his mom in the limo on the way over.

And the apologists and P.R. people are probably already firing up the Excuse-O-Meter. "Well, it's not TECHNICALLY incest, because they're not BLOOD relatives," the pooh-pooh'ers will say. "And they're both currently of legal age, so why not leave 'em alone?"

Because regardless of the fucking DNA involved, he raised this girl as his DAUGHTER, for chrissakes. Would you be any LESS shocked if it came out that Kurt Russell had been playing "Tickle the Pickle" with Kate Hudson? Hey, they're not technically related, either. Sure, she calls him "Dad," and he's been the only real father figure she's ever known, but he's not her BIOLOGICAL father! No big deal, right? He's never even married Goldie Hawn, so it's not even like it would be adultery! Yeah, anyone making THAT argument would be backed away from slowly and crossed off your Christmas card list, wouldn't they?

And besides, if you think about your relationship with your OWN kids (or if you don't have any, your own parents), you might start to get a sense of what's so very, very WRONG with this. Because at some point, he stopped making her peanut-butter sandwiches, and started buttering her muffin. At some point, he took her shopping for a REAL bra to replace her training bra, and was secretly delighted at how ripe her tits were getting.

At some point, he hugged her good-bye when she left for prom...and he had a hard-on.

If there's ANY silver lining to this story, it's that at the very least, the ever-present "anonymous sources" that constantly provide grist to the Tinsel-town rumor mill seem to indicate the following:

"Once source revealed: 'Morgan has led her to believe that he wants to marry her.' and another source says, 'Becoming Mrs. Morgan Freeman has been E'Dena's goal'."

Oh, good. At least the cleaning lady or chauffeur seems to feel as though Freeman intends to make an honest woman out of the step-granddaughter he raised from childhood, and has been penis'ing since puberty. So, there's that.

I suppose the big question is going to be: "How will this affect his career?" Once this gets out, it remains to be seen whether audiences will continue to accept him, given the sorts of roles he typically gets cast in. Will calm wisdom delivered in a stern-yet-compassionately understanding baritone somehow carry less weight when we know it's a put-on? Will we nod solemnly at a life lesson learned when it's obvious that there's "acting" happening? Will the warm feeling of sage-like serenity still be conveyed even after we're well-aware that the actor delivering the lines ACTUALLY has judgment on par with the average pantsless turbo-loser scouring internet chat-rooms, and pitching revoltingly clumsy woo at girls who still have braces and listen to the Jonas Brothers? Time will tell, I suppose. The only real precedent for this sort of thing is the Woody Allen situation, and it's not as though putting "Li'l Woody" to HIS decades-younger non-blood relative has necessarily ended his viability in the film industry.

But I'll still bet parents with teenage daughters cross the street when they see him coming.

"Get busy livin', or get busy bumpin' uglies with the girl who couldn't stop
kissing you when you gave her My Little Ponies for her tenth birthday."

I Love You New York Newspapers

Local New York newspapers tend to be hysterical. They have ridiculous headlines and attention grabbing full page photos of something usually shameful. I don't buy any of them, I look at them on their stands from afar. I prefer to read one of the free papers they hand out at all subway entrances, exits, platforms, etc.

This morning I grabbed an "AM New York" and read through the little snippets as usual until I came upon this article and proceeded to choke on my laughter while on the train to work. (At least we have a lot of insane people in NYC, so no one payed me any mind.)

"Suspect nabbed in B'klyn butt slapping

Police may have caught the serial "butt slapper" of Crown Heights.

Cops were questioning a man last night suspected of slapping and groping at least a few dozen women in the past few weeks.

"These assaults are degrading, insulting and frightening for the women and families of Crown Heights" said City Councilwoman Letitia James (D-Brooklyn.)

The most recent incident, according to the NYPD, was on Sunday, at Crown Street and Troy Avenue. James said the man, described as tall and skinny, sometimes does his slapping while riding a bicycle.

Several of the victims were Hasidic Jewish women, James said. (Jason Fink)

In Which I Call Out Samuel L. Jackson

So, last night, as I am often wont to do, I was catching up a bit with some of the backlog of television programming on my DVR. And one of the programs I've been recording is the new Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien. So far, I've really been enjoying it. Conan might not be everyone's cup o' tea, but I find him fresh and funny, as well as an adept interviewer. Never really cared much for Leno, honestly...His whole approach seemed a little too watered-down and pre-packaged. Not to mention that his obvious habit of having a representative pre-interview each guest to tease out anecdotes in advance was annoying as shit. You can bet if Leno said, "So, I understand you were hiking in the Himalayas recently," it's because the guest told a producer prior to the show that they'd been hiking in the Himalayas recently, and the producer helped them shape the story into a segments' worth of content. And hey, call me crazy, but if someone's being interviewed, I kind of appreciate at least the APPEARANCE of spontaneity.

But, as per usual, I digress.

Conan's first guest on Tuesday night's show was Samuel L. Jackson, he of "Pulp Fiction," "Snakes on a Plane," and "Star Wars" fame. And I dig Sam Jackson. I realize that's a bold statement, on a level with saying, "I enjoy breathing oxygen," and/or, "oral sex is nice," being as I don't know anyone who DOESN'T dig Sam Jackson. The man's an icon. A guaranteed box office draw, and for good reason. Few mix intelligence, charisma and cool in quite such complementary ratios. Plus, he's in EVERYTHING, so it's hard not to have enjoyed any number of his appearances. Thus, I watched the interview, and he was charming and funny as always.

But an exchange he and Conan had during his second segment REALLY grabbed my attention.

Conan asked about a rumor he'd heard: that Sam Jackson has a habit of combing the blogosphere, looking for people who write about him in a critical or disparaging fashion. Mr. Jackson confirmed this, saying he enjoys hunting down people who take potshots at him from behind the safety and relative anonymity of a keyboard and monitor, and then engaging them personally. Challenging their opinions, mano a mano, as himself. He even indicated that, if the criticism is severe enough, he may even call out the blogger, inviting them to meet him out someplace so they might "discuss" their differences face-to-face.

You can watch Sam and Conan's exchange on this topic below (it runs from roughly 28:08 - 29:50 in this clip):



In any case, I saw this, and that's when the wheels started turning.

As previously stated, I'm a fan of Mr. Jackson and his work. I think he's a fine actor, and has proven himself countless times to be a consummate gentleman. I have zero beef with him whatsoever. That said, I'm also a shameless publicity-whore when it comes to the Diary of Fools, and am willing to do nearly anything to boost our readership and raise our profile.

So, it became clear what I had to do.

Simply stated: In order to possibly raise the bar on our hit counter (via the method of drawing a bit of celebrity attention)...I had to give Samuel L. Jackson some shit.

Sure, it's a long shot. One look at the dude's IMDB C.V. confirms that he's busier than hell, and likely as not doesn't have time to read EVERY scrap of derision the internet at large has to throw at him. But what the hell? I've got just as much of a chance as anyone at getting his attention, and drawing a little fire, right? If Mr. Jackson enjoys spending his free time disputing criticism, then why not paint a nice, big target on my back? See, that's what's so great about the online world: the playing field is flatter than NBC's ratings.

Sorry, that was uncalled-for.

Anyway, as I said, I have no issue with the man. But that's incidental to the publicity opportunity this represents! I'm sort of like a Kindergartener that way...good attention or bad attention is all still ATTENTION. And I'm more than willing to put on a brave face, and take one for the team.

Besides, in the clip above, Sam talks about how he frequently asks these bloggers to put their money where their collective mouth is. To emerge from their dank parental basements, brush the Chee-to dust off of their stained anime T-shirts, and emerge into the searing sunshine to face him. Says he does this AS HIMSELF, and that he often offers proof in the form of a phone number in case someone doesn't believe that he is who he says he is, re-asserting his standing offer to throw down 4 realzies in actual offline meat-space.

He also indicates that NOBODY HAS EVER TAKEN HIM UP ON THIS OFFER. Could this BE any more of an open invitation to overnight infamy of the sort that only happens in cyberspace? I submit: NO.

And so, my next move is an obvious one. So, get ready, Mr. Jackson. Because here it comes.

**********

An Open Letter to Samuel L. Jackson:

Dear Sir (or Madam):

Recently, I found myself watching your latest appearance on "The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien." Although to be honest, when I initially tuned in, I thought I had dialed up the Westminster Dog Show by mistake; so reminiscent is your countenance of the appearance usually associated with the posterior of a Bull Terrier (Mr. O'Brien's resemblance to a hyperactive Irish Setter only compounded this confusion).

"We have a terrific show for you tonight!"

While listening to you prattle on endlessly about your dishwater-dull career as you plugged some insignificant awards show you were slated to host, it was all I could do not to succumb to a narcoleptic episode. As you sat there with your idiotically fruity lavender suit and ludicrous homeless-person hat, bloviating about meaningless twaddle, all I heard was: "I'm Samuel L. Jackson, and I'm a gigantic tool. Please pay attention to me, and bolster my plummeting Q score. Blah, blah, blah." So, in a desperate attempt to keep from impulsively throwing things at my television in knee-jerk response to your crushing mediocrity, I instead busied my hands by ticking off all of the myriad ways you suck on my fingers (not that you suck on my fingers, but I bet you would if given the chance, you panty-waisted nancy-boy).

Here's what I came up with before I ran out of digits. Feel free to have a friend read this to you, provided you have one:

1) I hear you're a vegetarian. Honestly?!? So I guess the whole "badass" thing is just so much Hollywood smoke and mirrors, huh? I can't remember the last time I met a vegetarian who wasn't such a pussy that they could barely snap a stalk of celery in two without help. Vegetables aren't food; vegetables are what food eats. But then again, tearing into a porterhouse requires testicles, so I suppose you have little choice but to stick to the tofu.

2) You famously worked as a camera stand-in for Bill Cosby on "The Cosby Show." How you ever got it into your head that you were worthy to carry Dr. Cosby's jock is beyond me, but as far as I'm concerned, doing so is your most significant show business contribution to date.

3) As Master Mace Windu in the "Star Wars" prequel trilogy, you insisted to George Lucas that you be the only Jedi Master to ever carry a violet-colored lightsaber. Analyzing the base-level insecurity it takes to kick and scream until you get to be the only person in the galaxy strutting around with a giant purple rod in your hands is best left to the Freudians. Which reminds me...how does it feel to be only the third-coolest black dude out of three in the whole galaxy? Billy Dee Williams flew the Millennium Falcon, for chrissakes, so he gets to be #1. What did YOU do except get zapped to death by the guy mentoring #2? And yeah, Darth Vader counts. If not for the costume, then for the James Earl Jones, fool.

4) You golf. 'Nuff said.

5) In "Deep Blue Sea," you got eaten by a shark. This is fitting, being as your career jumped one right around the same time.

6) Apparently, people mistake you for Laurence Fishburne a lot. Here's a tip: stop correcting them. Nothing but good things can come from people thinking you're someone who actually has talent.

7) Hey, I'm not sure if you know this? But you can say "NO" to shit. There you are playing piano for eleven seconds in "Kill Bill." There you are again, making me sit through the "Iron Man" credits for your weak-sauce little fanboy shout-out. I can't even turn on a cartoon or a video game without having to listen to you try to get out your lines and chew scenery at the same time. Y'know, If you love movies as much as you SAY you do? Maybe you should let US enjoy more of them by not being IN as many, huh? I mean, shit. Conan said you recently set a world record as the actor with the highest cumulative box-office total for all of his collected projects. That's not really because any of them were any good, y'know. You've just hedged your bets by hopping onto every turd script that floats down the sewer pipe. You might as well tattoo "Quantity Over Quality" directly onto your goddamned forehead.

8) In "Black Snake Moan," your character spends the entire movie with a half-naked, nymphomaniac Christina Ricci chained to a radiator as she constantly writhes around on the edge of carnal ecstasy. So, just like every other dude in the universe would, you tap that six ways to Sunday in every position imaginable, right? No. No, you don't. Instead, you try to "cure" her of her insatiable sexual appetite via the liberal application of religion. BZZZZT! You're DOING it wrong, Buzzkill McDouchebag. What's next? Gonna knock the ice cream out of a little kid's hands, or drown a sack of puppies?

9) You got nominated for an Oscar for "Pulp Fiction." You lost to Martin Landau, who played Bela Lugosi in "Ed Wood." In other words, you got punked by a good actor playing a bad actor in a movie about a horrible director. Which, by connecting the dots, means you were worse than all of them. But hey, as least you got to rock that sweet jheri curl. So I'm sure that more than makes up for it, right? Right?!?

10) Hey, say "motherfucker!" Aww, c'mon, do it! Yeah, I know a lot of washed-up has-been bands hate taking the stage at the county fair knowing everyone's just waiting for them to play their one hit, but they do it anyway, don't they? So say "motherfucker." Pleeeease? Hey, look what happened to Gary Coleman and Jimmie Walker. They flat-out refuse to pull out, "What'choo talkin' about, Willis?" and "DY-NO-MITE!" these days, and where are THEIR careers? Same place yours is headed, and they were both better actors than you. Better-looking, too. C'mon...say "motherfucker." I'll give you twenty bucks. Hell, if it'll make you feel better, I'll even point a camera at you. I know you can't resist that.

And that's where I ran out of fingers. I almost considered removing my shoes and continuing, but by that point, Jimmy Fallon was on. Which meant I could safely turn off the TV and go to bed.

In short, Mr, Jackson, you are a ruffian. A thug. A ne'er-do-well, a rapscallion, a hooligan, and a scoundrel. You couldn't act your way out of a wet paper bag. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to put one on you anyway, simply to save myself from having to see your big, dumb face every time I turn around. In short, you are a scourge, a boil on the rump of the film industry. And I'm convinced that the only reason nobody's lanced said boil yet is for fear of having to put up with all of the infected sludge inside issuing forth at once, rather than only a dismal, putrid trickle at a time.

You suck,
Merton Sussex.

P.S.: I almost forgot: you smell like room-temperature Gorgonzola, and your wife blows bums behind the 7-11.

Die.

**********

So, there you have it.

Again, I feel a bit disingenuous manufacturing mock outrage. I don't really feel this way. But if it gets Mr. Jackson's attention, so much the better. Because if he reads this, and calls me out? I would agree to meet him, pistols at dawn or not. In fact, that's sort of the whole point. Were that to happen, I'm sure I could convince him that the whole thing is a lark, deliberately constructed to result in a scenario where we'd wind up hanging out. We might even have a laugh over the whole thing and walk away friends. And of course, we'd both benefit from the publicity, which is the important thing to bear in mind.

But even if he still wants to beat the living shit out of me? I'm fine with that, too. It'd be an honor. Christ, kicking ass is what the man does for a living. He's a professional. That's a beating you could be proud to tell your goddamned GRANDKIDS about. And it's one your buddies couldn't even give you any grief over.

"Hey, I heard you got your ass kicked! Ha-ha!"

"That's true, I did. I got beat down. By Samuel L. Jackson."

"Ha-ha-h...Oh, wait. Really? Wow. That's...um...That's actually pretty cool."

"Daaaamn right."

So, what say you, Mr. Jackson? Are we on? Ball's in your court, sir. Whether or not it gets hit back is entirely your call. I eagerly await your reply, you doo-doo faced chump. Don't let me down, now. You're not getting any younger, ya know. Nonny-nonny-boo-boo.

I hate your face, and stuff.

"I'm Delroy Lindo, and I approved this message."

Quote of the Day- 7/7/09

A 48-year-old immigrant from Malta regularly hangs out in various New York City bars, but always on the floor, so that he can enjoy his particular passion of being stepped on. "Georgio T." told The New York Times in June that he has delighted in being stepped on since he was a kid.

Karl Hungus gets his start in Stomp Fetish

While one playmate "wanted to be the doctor, (another) wanted to be the carpenter ... I would want to be the carpet." (courtesy of the New York Post)

I should not judge though. I always wanted to be the bicycle seat for Kathy Ireland when I was little.

Pictured: Kathy Ireland, Reno Gruber (in a more simple time.)

Stoner Confucius Says...

"He who learns but does not think is lost. He who thinks but does not learn is in great danger. And he who consistently bums but does not buy will be skipped on the next pass. Hey, man, take it up with Jerry. I don't MAKE the rules, yo."

Now Hear This: You Have Wasted Your Life - Vol II

-Merton Sussex, Wanderer of the Waste

A number of weeks ago, I brought you a video featuring Yuto Miyazawa, a nine-year-old Japanese kid who tore up some "Crazy Train" on a Randy Rhoads guitar. I watched that video, and my jaw hit the linoleum.

Today, I saw a video that made the motherfucker drop clean off, and roll into a storm drain.

The following video features a young man named Jon Baglo. Jon Baglo has what ya call "talent." See, Jon wasn't content to just attain mastery of ONE instrument. Heavens, no. He decided to learn EVERY LAST MOTHERFUCKING ONE OF THEM. And then, once he knew them, he used use those talents to go into the studio, and play a song. EVERY PART of the song. And he filmed himself doing it, then cut the video together in four-way split-screen.

And the song he chose? "Mary Had a Little Lamb!" I'm kidding, of course...Because a dude with this much raw skill doesn't fuck around. no, he instead chose to play Boston's 1976 hit, "Foreplay / Long Time," a song which has given players in classic-rock cover bands spastic conniption fits for over thirty years, so soaring is the arrangement, and so precise are the parts. And he plays them all, every one, note-for-note, and perfectly.

"So what?" some will scoff. "He plays someone else's song. Big deal!" These are undoubtedly the same people who think playing Guitar Hero makes them 'cool.' "Okay, FINE," they'll counter. "But he's not SINGING it. Nyeeh." And they'd be right. Because the guy who IS singing lead is David Steele...Former bassist and backup vocalist for Fine Young Cannibals, and The English Beat, who also performs his part absolutely perfectly (as does Jon's school chum Spencer on backups). In short, if you know anything about playing a real instrument, this will blow your socks right into the laundry hamper.

Did I mention that Jon Bagwell just turned 18 years old this past April? Because that happened. Yeah, really. At the age where most kids are just trying to get to graduation with their skin intact, Jon here is spending his weekends doing shit like THIS.

Normally, we're all about the snark and satire around here, but some things are above reproach. Here's one of those things. Enjoy.

DoF Celebrates America's Birthday

8-bit werewolves are surprisingly patriotic, and tomorrow they will be making all sorts of little bleep-bloop approximations of howling at the moon in honor of the good old USofA, where they can finally have the freedom to shave their chests in front of shadowy cabals.

I'm sure by now you've heard the naysayers bitching about the fragility of our democracy ever since the Vice President turned out to be an evil mastermind, but may I remind you of President Michael Wilson's brave actions in that dark time.

If he had not courageously donned his highly advanced power-armor and singlehandedly battled the VP's forces, we'd all be drinking Darjeeling tea right now instead of proper oat sodas.

So bash the flag if you must, but you'll be spitting in the eyes of all the musclebound werewolves and mech-piloting politicians who gave so much to defend your right to do so.

Stop by GamesRadar for an exhaustive look at the videogame heroes who gave their all for Lady Liberty.

The DoF Friday Funk: The Meters

"The Handclapping Song"

aka

One of the best summertime cookout jams of all-time.

The Meters, much like the Wu, ain't nuttin' to fuck wit. Their minimalist funk is practically custom-made to be sampled, and they deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as JB and George when talking about the foundations of hip-hop.

Scroll to the bottom of the Blip.fm player to release the ants straight into your pants.

The Intellectual Scrapheap: Not-So-Deep Thoughts from the Mind of Blaine Fridley

With the advent of hands-free Bluetooth Technology, it's getting increasingly difficult to decipher whether or not someone's having a normal phone conversation or just completely out of their fucking mind.

(Left) Crazy or just conversatin'? You make the call!

Conversely, it's made it super easy to identify a douchebag when you see one.

(Above) The mark of the douche.

the googles.

A popular post amongst bloggers with absolutely nothing to write about is the "crazy and wacky Google searches that pulled up this blog" bit.

Well, after pouring through the referral records of the 10s of DoF visitors from this last week, I found this befuddling beauty:

Search Words: "rhetoricall (sic) question about soy beans"

The brain shuts down immediately when attempting to grasp why anybody would ever type these words into a search engine, so don't even try.

But on the other hand, it gave me an awesome new title for my memoirs:

This Day in History: July 1st

1987: President Ronald Reagan nominates federal appeals court judge Robert H. Bork to the United States Supreme Court.

Bork's nomination is ultimately rejected by the U.S. Senate amid accusations of revisionism, breaking the hearts of conservatives, Congressional Republicans, and the Swëdish Chéf.

1898: Theodore Roosevelt and his "Rough Riders" wage a victorious assault on San Juan Hill in Cuba during the Spanish-American War.

In addition to marking a major turning point in the battle over control of Cuba, this benchmark also cemented the United States' then-burgeoning and now-cemented reputation as the global community's pre-eminent large-scale killer of poor brown people.

2000: The Confederate flag is removed from atop South Carolina's Statehouse.

This heartfelt milestone marks a significant shift in tone, affecting the deep cultural roots of the region's notoriously race-conscious culture. For their part, most of the rest of the country takes a brief moment away from adjusting to the challenges of the brand-new 21st century to applaud South Carolina, and proudly welcome them to the 20th.