From the Diary of a (Kinda) Mad (Half) Black Man: Chia Obama?!?!

Traditionally, April showers have been known to bring the same ole’ May flowers. But now, thanks to Joseph Enterprises, creators of the ever-popular and amusing ‘Chia’ line, April showers will now stimulate the growth of your very own presidential afro. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you – Chia Obama! Available in both “Determined” and “Happy” this botanic bust of the 44th President of U.S. of A. is available nationwide and can be found in between the terra cotta likenesses of such luminaries as Elmer Fudd and Kung-Fu Panda. Or perhaps he will be alongside Garfield, Shrek, and Bart Simpson. Maybe Scooby-Doo and Shrek? Starting to see a trend here? Not limited to cartoons, Chia creations also come in the form of animals, trees, even an alarm clock. At this point it hardly seems like an honor for our President to be chosen for a Chia portrayal. Actually starts to become a bit of an insult.

In fact, the only other human being who has ever been Chia-ized is the venerable Mr. T. No disrespect to Mr. Lawrence Tureaud, the man who introduced 'jibba-jabba' to American lexicon, but even he would admit he is hardly of the same distinction as President Obama. Factoring in his appearances in the first two Wrestlemanias, his 1-800-Collect commercials, and his most famous roles as B.A. Baracus and Clubber Lang, the guy was practically born for clay immortality. For Chrissake he was an actual cartoon at one point!

So why choose these two iconic figures above all others? I took the liberty of noting the similarities between the ‘T’ man and our fair President.

1. Some level of African descent.
2. Ability to grow an afro.

…

Not exactly the strictest of criteria, huh? Now I get that Obama is one of the most marketable beings on the planet right now. But I find it hard to believe that a Dubya Chia wouldn’t have sold just as well. Or Albert Einstein and Jerry Garcia for that matter. Maybe a fro of foliage just seems more amusing atop a re-creation of a Black likeness. I might just be missing the point, but I am not amused. And since Walgreen's has pulled Chia Obama from its shelves, I imagine I’m far from alone.

Cartoons, animals, and black people. Sounds like the cast of a 40’s era Warner Bros. cartoon. But this is 2009 and I expect more. Even from a Chia pet, dammit!

This Day in History

1952:
An atomic test conducted in Nevada became the first nuclear explosion shown on live network TV. The second being the time Jo confronted Kimberly for stealing her baby on Melrose Place. Me-owww:

1970:

Earth Day was observed for the first time… From the driver side window of the new 30-foot long 1971 Chrysler Carbonater Deluxe.

Champions of Society: This Week in Food-related Stabbings

Pork 'n' beans?

Tasty. 

Not to mention, hilariously musical.

Pop Tarts?

The most delicious marriage of cardboard and high fructose corn syrup yet.

Like 'em both. 

I do.

But not nearly as much as brothers Willie Casst and Agusta Wells of Gillian, LA like their beans or Ms. Catheline Marie Colon of Tampa Bay her toaster pastries.

Go ahead. Try opening up that last can of Capt. Ken's without asking. 

That's a stabbing for you.

Or leave an empty Pop Tarts box in the pantry. 

Yup. You guessed it. That's another stabbing.

Lesson learned?

Don't ever touch a man's non-perishable foodstuffs without asking.

Or else you'll get the blade everytime, motherfucker. Every. Time.

Hot Sh!t: Look at this fucking hipster

Hand-picked hotness you need to check out. Or not. You know, like, whatever.

Hey everybody, look at this fucking hipster.

Jamaica: Land of Reggae, Home of Broken Dicks

In a very funny story that has very painful consequences, Jamaican clinics are reporting a notable increase in cock fractures. (I believe that is the professional term.) According to Nationnews.com, which apparently is Barbados' #1 news paper, the penis breaks are attributed to "men's obsession with daggerin', aka rough sex."

Basically a penile fracture happens when a blunt trauma is inflected onto our glorious boners.
(ed note: Hahahaha. Boners. It never gets old, does it?)

But yeah, fucking ouch.

Bob was wise enough to just get on top like a real man

So this leads ol' Reno to this point; Surely most of you know I'm like Usher, in that I just like to take things nice and slowwwwww. Especially the sex, so as someone who has little to no threat of this, I kinda laugh. I shudder to think of a bent cock, but fucking 'Grey's Anatomy' covered this already, so its only in the irony life provides that its now happening in real life.

I'd quote Life imitating Art, but calling 'Grey's Anatomy' Art is like calling my farts music.

See, maybe its just because of my greatness, but I've found the harder you go generally has little to do with the better it feels for her,(and most likely means you're raping her.) From a guy's perspective, unless you have some sort of wool sweater on that thing, it's going to feel quite lovely slow, fast, forwards or sideways. So logically I just can't give much of a sympathetic ear for those who crack their wang "daggerin'" a woman.

Seriously, why any woman would want anything done to them called "daggerin'" is a bit astounding, but then again some of you put the most dangerous toxin in the world in your face to prevent wrinkles, so I digress.

No idea what this really shows, but I laughed at the x-ray that says "fracture penis."
It's the little things in life.

As I write this I'm doing research, and I find it can also be categorized as aggressive dry sex on dance floors. In that case I am all for cock breaking, because nobody wants to see two people crumping, let alone doing it while simulating sex.

If I could end world hunger or delete the idea of crumping from the populace, you wouldn't want to know what I'd choose.

The DoF Friday Funk: The Sound Providers

A jazzy blessing (with bonus random snow/skateboard footage). Enjoy.

Shit that's nice. 

Have the best weekend you can,

Love,

The DoF Crew.

Who are the ad wizards…

Gents, we've all been there. You meet a girl, you go out, you have a great time and because you know how to spot the ones with questionable judgement, she invites you back to your place.

Awesome.

You then convince her that pants cause cancer.

Super awesome.

She takes said alleged cancer-causing pants off.

Giggity.

But then you look below and GASP! basically, you see this:

what appears to be left-over admiration for Randy Moss circa the 2005 playoffs.

hmm.

um.

gross.

and awkward.

What to do, what to do…

Well, you could use the Reno Gruber Method which is properly executed by :

1. mentioning how much you abhor neglected, overgrown pube thickets
2. stare at her.

OK, but what if you're not a huge dick like Reno, but you're afraid "just dealing with it" will spark flashbacks from your time deep in the jungle of 'Nam?

Per usual, the interwebs have the answer. Providing she can decode all the subtleties at play here (a shaved cat? you bawdy little monkeys), this piece of horrendous advertising doubles as an unintentional, though somewhat effective, public service announcement that may shame her into at least clearing a path for you:

Or you could just bash her in the back of the head with a frying pan while yelling "shave your pubes!"

Either way.

Safety First!

Cinema Reflections: "The Notebook."

I am not our resident cinemaphile; far from it. That honor resides with Knarf. Compared to him and his encyclopedic knowledge of the film world, I am but a trembling, dew-eyed waif of unsurpassed naïveté.

However.

I do enjoy films. Well, I enjoy GOOD films. Pity they have become scarcer than poor gay Muslim African-American Republicans. Even so, bad films can be just as entertaining, albeit for entirely different reasons.

So, while Knarf has more than cornered the market on analysis of so-bad-they're-good exploitation and fringe films over at the tasty Video Updates, I figured I'd tackle a much softer subject today (and in possible subsequent editions of Cinema Reflections which I shall be inspired to concoct provided this one generates sufficient hate-mail). Namely, mainstream, big-budget studio excrement.

So, for your amusement, I figured I'd watch a film that most penis-owners agree is an absolute pile of shit: "The Notebook."

But first, a small caveat:

In the due course of watching certain films, I've noticed a peculiar phenomenon: My preconceived notions of a film going into it often color my final perceptions. The amount of enjoyment I get out of a movie is often affected to some degree by my having heard "things" about it prior to heading into its viewing. For instance, if a film is heavily touted by the popular opinion to be the second coming, a can't-miss, an utterly grand spectacle, my expectations are understandably inflated. At that point, I'm invariably disappointed upon actually viewing the film. Since my expectations have been ramped up to an absurd degree, if the film less than blows me away, I leave it soured.

On the other hand, if I've been told by every critic, friend, and opinion-spouting media orifice that a film is a complete and utter turkey, I may see it for the kitsch value, fully expecting it to be a noisome, squishy lump of doo-doo. Then, if it's nowhere near as bad as everyone says, I leave refreshed, thinking to myself, "Well, THAT was hardly crap at ALL!"

Honestly, I hoped that when it came to this movie, this circumstance would play itself out again. After all...I'd heard it was a pile of tripe. An over-romanticized, ham-fisted, schmaltzy, sickly-sweet potpurri pot of a movie. A film sopping with equal amounts of violins and bathos, and possessed of zero shame. The sort of presentation where they may as well pump fresh-cut onion fumes in through the ventilation ducts. An unapologetic, six-hanky weepie with no redeeming social value.

And I'm happy to report, popular opinion was once again wrong.

It was actually much, much worse than that.

To wit: As the film opens, we're treated to scenes of someone in a rowboat slicing slowly through the peaceful, sunset-reflecting water of a marshy river to the tune of a melancholy piano melody drenched in ersatz reverb, scattering a flock of embarrassingly low-frame-rate CG waterfowl to soar "majestically" across the window of an impossibly stately rest home, where an old woman stands looking out the window sadly.

At that point, my worst fears were confirmed: I knew I was more profoundly and thoroughly fucked than the head cheerleader on prom night.

Why else do you think they call her that?

The old woman (Gena Rowlands), an Alzheimer's patient, is soon joined by an old man (James Garner) carrying a book. Apparently, he's there to read to her. Aww. He introduces himself, and sets about reading a love story. And anyone who can't see where this is going within the first five minutes is so painfully, tragically stupid that they DESERVE this movie. Not to mention an enthusiastic slap in the head.

Most of the film then happens in flashback. The setting is the early, pre-war forties. The stage is set when Noah (Ryan Gosling), a laughably earnest, open-faced lumber-working rube gets it into his sleepy-eyed, sandy-blonde head that he has a chance with Allie (Rachel McAdams), the rich daughter of a local summer-home-owning mucky-muck. He pulls some stupid, "this-crap-only-works-in-bad-movies" stunts to get her attention that naturally make her fall for him. They have an intense, doomed whirlwind summer romance that, of course, ends come September. He promises to write, he writes letters every day for a year, except her Mom hides them because she doesn't approve, so she eventually winds up getting engaged to a sweet-but-bland rich guy, then suddenly she sees a picture in the paper where Noah has restored their "dream house" to the exact specifications they'd fantasized about that magic summer and right about then is when you realize you've had less painful root canals. Even that one where the dentist had to go in rectally.

OH GOD IT'S ALL SO SUB-HALLMARK PSEUDO-ROMANTIC I JUST WANT TO
TEAR MY INTESTINES OUT WITH A GODDAMNED BARBECUE FORK

Point is, everything here is such a banal cliché that anger (rather than the intended sympathy) is the overwhelming emotion as the film tenderly, gently, and condescendingly leads you by the hand to each marshmallow-soft plot point, then still feels the need to point it out to make sure you caught it. I mean, c'mon. There's heavy-handed, and then there's knuckle-dragging. This movie leaves both in the dust.

However, it's not just the plot that's a joke, It fails for several other obvious reasons. The leads are one. Gosling is numbly inoffensive, good-hearted but as bland as a lukewarm bowl of unsweetened cream-of-wheat. James Marsden as new-rich-boyfriend-guy is all he needs to be: Not the other guy. Still, even if he IS used as little more than window dressing and an inconvenient plot point, he comes off as someone I could have a conversation with, and NOT want to stab in the throat.

If you don't want to watch this movie (good instinct), then just stare at this picture for two hours.
Congratulations! You've just wasted the same amount of time, but had an identical experience.
No, wait...On second thought, just the picture is actually way better.

McAdams fares far worse. I have no idea why this vapid twat is allowed to be an actress. Shrill, fickle, flighty, none-too-bright, rude, insipid and openly abusive, not to mention horse-faced, scrawny, and short, one is left with the too-frequently-seen-in-movies question of why two mostly-okay guys are willing to even TOLERATE her in the first place, much less make bids for her affection. She's like Olive Oyl, but without the fashion sense.

And the older couple is no great shakes, either. Garner and Rowlands should have known better. They've both been good and occasionally even great in other projects, but they ought to have read this script and briskly strolled as fast as their legs could carry them in the opposite direction. Yeah, I know that Gena Rowlands is the director's mother. But there comes a point in every kids life where even their own MOM should take them aside and say, "Honey? You know I support you, but I really can't encourage this. You're only humiliating yourself." For me, that moment came both just a bit late, and right on time: AFTER ballet lessons, but before leotard-shopping.

GEE I WONDER IF THERE'S SOME SORT OF CONNECTION BETWEEN THESE
GERIATRIC FARTS AND THE TWENTY-SOMETHINGS IN THE FLASHBACK SEQUENCES
ALSO IF SOMEONE COULD EXPLAIN TO ME AGAIN HOW TO TIE MY SHOES I'M SURE I'LL
TOTALLY GET IT THIS TIME

As if all this wasn't bad enough...In addition to being syrupy, trite, and predictable to the point of absurdity, "The Notebook" has absolutely no idea of how bad it really is. See, every step of the way, it goes to great lengths to assure you that it's taking itself very, very seriously. It thinks it's an important, heartfelt film. And that's sad. Because, after over two hours of "On Golden Pond" meets "50 First Dates" getting roughly sodomized by "Sweet Home Alabama", the only thing that makes "The Notebook" tolerable is laughter. Hearty, enthusiastic laughter.

Whether it's guffawing at the fact that the wardrobe and makeup departments have apparently gone to great lengths to transform the actor playing the girl's father into a doppelgänger of Josef Stalin, or suppressing giggles behind a closed fist over forehead-slappingly obvious plot non-twists that you saw coming twenty minutes hence (but that are nevertheless "revealed" with crescendo string-section swells that hit you over the head with quasi-dramatic "tension")...If you don't laugh, you cry. And not for the reasons the filmmaker intended in EITHER case.

I'm not kidding. It really IS just two hours of this bullshit, and nothing else. Really.

Speaking of the the filmmaker, FURTHER rendering this film unforgivable is the fact that it was directed by Nick Cassavetes. That's Nick, son of John Cassavetes, auteur behind some of the most interesting and edgiest independent pieces of verité ever committed to celluloid. I imagine that, in the wake of this puddle of poo-poo hitting the screen, if one were able to hook some copper coils to the ends of the senior Cassavetes' casket, one could supply power to lower Manhattan for the better part of a month.

When taken in the spirit in which it was intended, "The Notebook" is an absolute mess. A turgid mass of Cinema d'Vagina that's exclusively adored not just by women, but by the sort of women who own multiple cats, have an expense account with Harlequin, and who could give you a detailed breakdown of the last 25 years of character development on "One Life To Live," but could NOT readily identify the President at gunpoint. Women who will never understand what ACTUAL love feels like, if you get me. This film's ONLY redeeming quality is that, having been shot in the verdant South and costumed according to period, it is in certain stretches quite pretty to look at. But other than that, the only people who could derive even the merest scrap of enjoyment out of the tragi-romantic stylings of it are the same sort of poor, deluded souls who actually think "Titanic" DESERVED that fucking Oscar.

That being said, if viewed as a broad, unintentional comedy, which is the only way it even makes sense to try, it's one of the funniest films I've seen in decades.

Judges to Coleman: You Lost. Now Fuck Off.

by Blaine Fridley, Forgot Who He Voted for in the First Place

"Let the healing begin" - Norm Coleman asking Franken to waive his right to a recount after initial election day results showed the incumbent in the lead by less than 1%

"While our campaign remains focused on the recount, it's clear the Franken campaign is more interested in court challenges, U.S. Senate intervention, and making new commercials attacking local election officials." - Norm Coleman, November '08

Looks like the best advice for EX-Minnesota Senator Norm Coleman at the moment is his own.

After a state-appointed 3-judge panel declared Democrat Al Franken the winner of last November's senatorial race on Monday, Coleman now has 10-days to take his hissy fit/senatorial cock-block to the MN Supreme Court, wasting even more tax payer money and GOP credibility (oxymoron?) in the process. Coleman lawyer Ben Ginsberg (who HAS to keep a ready supply of shame-scrubbing Brillo pads in his briefcase) has already told the public he's planning on taking this dead horse - flies and all - to the Minnesota Supreme Court. I know if I were (MN Senior Justice/Greatest Defensive Tackle of All-Time) Alan Page, I'd probably say something along the lines of "Fuck your mother, Norm."

Elocution so often eludes me at crunch time.

(Also, whining to a man who lost 4 Super Bowls about losing just seems like it would be a fruitless endeavor.)

<<--- you wanna talk to THIS man about losing?

Lucky for me, there are other people out there who are much more capable of verbalizing their dismay with the situation then myself. Fellow GOPer and former MN Governor Arne Carlson calls Coleman's constant appealing a "gross misuse of the American judicial system."

Former Republican congressman Joe Scarborough also elaborated on his MSNBC morning show (Jesus H. Christ on a Segway, who the fuck voluntarily wakes up to Joe Fuckin' Scarborough?): "When are the Republicans going to give up the ghost on this? Seriously. Norm, I like you. You lost, OK? It is seriously not fair to constituents in Minnesota to drag this out any longer. It's over Norm, OK? It's over."

So what does this all mean to you US citizens outside of the Land of 10,000 Lakes? Basically, what Coleman's tax payer-funded (can't stress this enough) temper tantrum is accomplishing is delaying the inevitable seating of Democrat number 59 in the senate, 1 less than needed for a filibuster-proof majority. That's it. He wants the Dems to have to work for TWO Republican votes instead of one.

Everywhere ol' Normy turns, the reply is "You lost." Not because of voter fraud. Not because of miscalculated ballots. But because YOU FUCKING LOST. Politician "A" (Franken) received more votes than Politician "B" (Coleman). That's all. That's what the Supreme Courts - state or federal - will tell you too. Unequivocally. You FUCKING LOST.

So keep kickin' and screamin', Norm. Please. Your less-than-elementary actions may cost the Dems one more vote for the time being, but the votes your asinine behavior may be taking away from GOP candidates in future elections are steadily piling up.

If I was Ben Ginsberg, I'd say it's time to pack it in and start your new career as a Crest White Strips model as soon as possible.

Also, fuck your mother.

Observational Thinking: Americans

By Sully Sullivan, 9-time Latin Grammy Winner/1-time Unabomber suspect

At the end of March, I was in Vegas for five nights and it was quite a wild time. All fun aside though guys; Americans have problems. They have problems that go way beyond a bad economy and a retarded war. Don’t get me wrong, those two things are very big problems, but I’m inclined to think it’s the little fundamental problems within American society itself that will be the eventual downfall of the country. The following is a compilation of some notes I took on Americans while I was there observing them in their natural habitat.

Observation #1: Americans cannot, for the life of them, handle escalators.

Problem: In the five days I was in Las Vegas, I witnessed two escalator-related accidents. It seems that if the terrorists were so inclined to disturb America, they would replace every staircase with an escalator and then it would just be a waiting game. I mean how can you watch a man, unconscious, slowly glide up an escalator laid out flat on his back and not see a weakness in the U.S.’ defenses.

Solution: Is situating a full buffet atop each American escalator enough incentive to get them to the top? As fate may have it, Solution #1 brings us to Observation #2…

Observation #2: Americans are fat disgusting pigs and they don’t care who knows it.

Problem: Well this one is obvious, but beating dead horses is a game I often play with myself. A friend and I went to 7-11 where we saw a donut rack, next to a hot dog bar, next to an eight-flavored Slushee machine, next to the soda fountain, next to an obese kid in a fat-roll-exposing sleeveless t-shirt whom no doubt just ran the gauntlet of gluttony provided right there in the store. I imagine that seconds before we entered, he was adding bits of krispy kreme donut to his cream soda slurpee and using a bacon cheeseburger hotdog to stir them in. Yes, America has Bacon Cheeseburger Hot Dogs.


Solution: Eat some fucking fruits and vegetables once in a while, America. Again as fate my have it, this solution ties right into the next observation. Eerie, right?

Observation #3: Americans are under the impression that lime flavoring is the cure for cancer.

Problem: Beginning with Bud Light Lime and ending with squeezed lime being forced into my burrito, it became increasingly clear that lime has become the hottest celebrity in America. Why though? That’s the goddamn question, America. I’ll admit that the beer was quite tasty and refreshing, but having it in my food, hair products, and drinking water is a bit much. I bet that if I had ordered a hooker to my room, her vagina would have come garnished with fresh lime wedges. (Let’s all be thankful I decided to go in another direction with my lime pictures.) Anyhow, for reasons beyond the realm of my imagination, lime is larger than life right now in the States.

Solution: Give lemons a shot, guys. With all the negative publicity concerning life giving people lemons and cars being lemons, I think it’s time that lemon gets a shot. Lemon is a hard working fruit, goddamn it, and if you’ve ever had a lemon meringue pie, you’d know that.

And now we'll end with a look into what real American Hero, Lime, has been doing lately...




Editor's note: Sully Sullivan is, quite simply, the cat's ass. While you may know him from the new smash-hit DoF segment Ask a Canadian, he sometimes shares his opinion without waiting for a direct question. He has compiled said opinions on his blog Yeah… Totally, Right? Go there. It is funny. It also releases a pleasing aroma similar to that of green Speed Stick® (by Mennen®) for your olfactory enjoyment while reading.

This Day in History

1865:

President Lincoln was shot and mortally wounded by John Wilkes Booth while attending the comedy "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater in Washington, D.C. While the shooting is most often attributed to Booth's severe distaste for abolition, historians now know it was the loud smacking noise the president produced while eating his Juji Fruits™ coupled with his constant rustling of snack chip bags during the performance that really sent Booth over the edge.

2007:

Singer Don Ho died in Honolulu, Hawaii at the age of 76.

I'm sure this means something to someone.

DoF Classic - Levels of Wrong: The 5 Greatest Ways to End a Summer Relationship

So nice, we've posted it twice. 

Originally published 8/12/08

By Reno Gruber, Newly Single and Able to Tingle.


In honor of a recent summer lady-friend breaking it off with Reno via email (no ‘sorry, that sucks!’ needed, she merely beat Reno to the punch. Damn you, perceptive women!) I would like to nominate the worst (greatest) ways to break off those pesky summer flings we all fall into.

.

5.) The aforementioned email-outty.

This particular diddy is wrought with disaster as its fucking impossible to read tone or intent via email, and with common spelling and syntax errors (which you know Reno is quite accustomed to making,) most of the time you don’t even realize what the fuck is happening until the last line.

Email break-ups are also generally littered with awful cliche and constipated thoughts that generally make an easy break-up frustrating. Personally, it wasn’t that I found it all that heart-breaking, but her over use of “It is what it is” made me want to magically turn into a girl for a minute so I could giveher hair a good tuggin’.

(note: DOF does NOT encourage violence against women unless you can actually turn into a woman temporarily, in which case the DOF loves a good cat-fight, MEOW!)

Reno advises a short but sweet, band-aid treatment. Or yah know, leaving a rambling voice-message like a real human being.

4.) The Facebook status change.

Nothing says “You meant nothing to me” like the shaming that is the Facebook relationship status change. That little broken heart avatar takes a casual summer-sex affair and makes you feel like a second-born Chinese baby…for about 15 minutes. Then you realize someone just fucking ‘face-booked’ about their personal life and god should probably choke-slam their soul. However, your relationship’s demise sandwiched between them becoming a fan of “Grey’s Anatomy” and them ‘friending’ someone else really is a nice tomahawk dunk to your nuts.

Bonus points if you see that they did it, realized they did it, regretted it, un-did it…then just said fuck it and did it again.

(Note: you actually win if someone did this to you. Unless they gave you genny warts first. Then of course, you always lose.)

Reno suggests you A) stop announcing yourself on facebook you clown …but if that’s to late; B) return serve, and then quickly create a three pronged attack to destroy their facebook character (which is actually an oxymoron.)

3.) The singing telegram

This is actually an emotional roller-coaster worth taking I’d imagine. If someone is creative and sadistic to send you a singing telegram, you may try to get that person back. God doesn’t just create genius all the time, you know. At worst, make sure they don’t have any revealing pictures of you, because they’re not long for their private archives.

For your sake, let’s hope they wrote the lyrics and they include searing personal insults about your inabilities to please them in the sack, or that your breath that reminds one of Nacho Cheese Doritos. At least you can have a few laughs at your own expense.

Something like.

“You gave me the clap just by sitting on my lap. I knew you were all dead inside when you felt like cold raw-hydddddddddddddddddde!”

You have to respect that level of creative expression, even if they leave you a quivering mess. Reno suggests nothing, in this case. They won, resoundingly.

2.) The post-it note.

Maybe the least caring way to say “you’re useless to my junk.” If you can summarize your feelings for someone as briefly and impersonally as you are allowed on a single post it note, hastily stuck in a semi-public place, than you probably should just realize you’re a spawn of Satan, and understand that hell awaits your inevitable demise.

However, Reno congratulates your hubris and applauds your level of detachment to others, as it’s a common theme here at the ‘Diary.’

Reno has no suggestions for those who receive this. Maybe therapy? I’d also consider kegel exercises. You probably need to work on your stamina.

(Update: Apparently Sex and the City covered this; which makes me such a Samantha!)

1.) The Jumbotron Humiliation.

Reserved for only the most vindictive types; what better way to announce your new-found apathy towards a former lover than to share it with 20,000 of your peers? Now, you will be heavily censored in this endeavor, so you will want to make sure you either keep it simple and to the point, or cleverly include an innuendo most will get, but the sex-deprived score-board operator would be lost on. Any slang post 1997 should suffice. Sorry, that means “Bumping Uglies” is out.

Bonus points if you can actually set it up so that you’re not present; you never want to be anywhere beer or nacho cheese is prevalent when breaking up with someone… unless you have a nice shirt that needs a little flavoring.

If this happens to you, Reno suggests pure ignorance. As sharp as this is, there is the chance nobody around you sees it. If so, your only option is to claim your buddy did it and play it as a joke. Feel free to go into the bathroom and drown your sorrows in the trough after the laughter and finger-pointing begins to subside.

BONUS- Readers Choice.

Post your favorite addition/ personal story to this in the comment section. The best comment will get free DOF swag when we finally get that stuff printed. (should be by next week.) If you can beat Merton, Blaine, Lucy, Alistair or Barry, then you deserve some free shit.

Reno suggests you fucking do this.

Friday Funk: Genre Movie Edition

In the late '80s and early '90s, Hollywood discovered the newfangled "rap" thingy that all the kids seemed to be talking about. Faster than you can say "Sugarhill Gang" a hip-hop media bubble was born, fueling the popular misconception that anyone with even the faintest hint of rhythm and a pair of Wayfarers could be a rapper. Along with all the ill-advised Wendy's training videos, grandmothers, and exercise videos, rap flooded into pop culture though multiplexes and the endlessly repeated dregs of cable movie channels.

Here's a track from the obscure 1990 group The U-Krew, as seen in the Dolph Lundgren vs. Extraterrestrial Drug Dealers movie, I Come in Peace:




Especially in B-movies of the time, rap was treated as a gimmick, but more serious directors managed to find room for artists with more staying power. Staple New York auteur, Abel Ferrara cobbled together a formidable soundtrack for his Christopher Walken led gangster film King of New York, prominently featuring this track by Schooly D:

Even the blockbusters weren't willing to miss out on this trend. Most people forget that Die Hard was a Christmas movie, so here is some holiday cheer from the soundtrack to remind you.

Iraqi Shoe-thrower's Sentence Reduced to 1 year, Shoe-thrower's Target Still a Free Man

by Blaine Fridley, Editor-in-Chief/Superfreak

George W. Bush.

'member him?

White middle-aged dude about, oh, 6 feet tall, physically fit, salt and pepper hair tamed by the standard presidential side-part? 43rd president?

No?

Nothing?

Hmmm... what else, what else...ohyeah, derrrrr Blaine, you silly dunderhead! How could I forget "lied to the world about weapons of mass destruction to trick congress into authorizing an invasion of Iraq in a dubious effort to put his stamp on history and make up for a lifetime of over-privileged, coke-fueled, underachieving tom-fuckery at a cost of over 4,000 American lives, 100,000 Iraqi civilians, the economic well-being of the country and indeterminable damage to America's standing in the world?"

'member that?

There you go… I knew you'd get it sooner or later. Don't feel bad. You're not the only one. Ever since he left the White House in flames this past January, a lot of people seem to be forgetting his time in office and, more importantly, the countless lies spewed and crimes committed during his time in office that he should stand trial for. They're well documented and piled in a stack higher than young George on a spring break trip to Bogotá. ZING! (You can't see it, but my comedic-prop bow tie is spinning.)

In fact, as you may remember, his actions in office so angered a one Muntadhar al-Zaidi that he threw a shoe at the then-president during a December 14th press conference in Iraq.

And then he threw another one.

Drat. 0-for-2.

Luckily for George, the 30 year-old Iraqi journalist couldn't hit the broadside of a Delta Burke. He missed that squinty little motherfucker despite having proximity and the element of surprise on his side.

As The Dude would say, "That's a fucking bummer, man."

Well, this week an Iraqi court decided to reduce al-Zaidi's sentence from 3 years to 1 year. I think most Americans would agree this is 1 year too many.

So al-Zaidi sits in jail for throwing a shoe. 

Meanwhile, Bush and Cheney gang raped Lady Liberty right in front of the CNN cameras for 8 years and our government and legal system didn't even blink an eye.

Nobody did.

And we're not talking just about Iraq here.

The list of evil-doing goes on longer than the video results list for a "george w. bush + embarrassing speech" search on YouTube.

Torture, domestic spying, detainment without trial, outing the identity of a CIA agent, dismissing federal judges based on political alignment, creating a constant state of "war" to abuse executive power and using a record amount of signing statements to do the same. That takes care of the tip of the iceberg.

These aren't accusations. They're fact. And all available to you during a casual lunch break Google search. It'd even leave you with plenty of time to read Perez Hilton. ("HA-HA! The man drew a picture of a penis in Miley Cyrus' mouth! HA-HA! PENIS… that's brilliant. We should really get this man his own show.")

The work of a comedic genius. Obviously.

It's not as if Bush's actions fall in any sort of gray area of moral subjectivity. This is not an Oval Office humjob from a chubby intern.

These are egregiously unconstitutional actions, and therefore subject to criminal punishment.

And yet, we do nothing. 

The most litigious soul-fucking nation on Earth does nothing.

We'll sue McDonald's for having the audacity to serve us hot coffee or the school district for making little Timmy play dodgeball. We'll file a police report when someone steals our bike. But watch our president kill hundreds of thousands of people (again, including the Iraqi civilians) while wiping his ass with everything this country says it's about and how do we respond?

"As you were, sir. "  

Seems fine.

OK, so Dennis Kucinich did actually attempt to do something. But per usual, everybody just dismissed the adorable little man and then forced him to dance a jig as Harry Reid played the pan flute. At least that's how I remember it.

Anyway, no matter how laudable, Kucinich's calls for impeachment just aren't enough. 

Impeachment annnnd a public pantsing? Maybe.

Though ask author/lawyer Vincent Bugliosi and he'll take it even further: trying the ex-president for the murder of the 4,000+ men and women he sent to Iraq based on his lies.

Last summer he released a book outlining the case against him. And he also testified before the House Judiciary Committee about this topic and the abuse of executive power in general.

I have a hard time disagreeing with the man. Especially since Bush is responsible for the deaths of more Americans than Al-Qaeda (Mmmm… sooo incendiary. DeeeLISH.).

I know we're in the midst of an economic clusterfuck, and all energy is currently focused on that. But this issue simply can not be ignored. We can't just "turn the page" as the Obama administration suggests when we haven't addressed what's on the CURRENT page.

The legacy of George W. Bush is an insult to the U.S. Constitution. Secrecy, fear-mongering and totalitarian action with no accountability.

We only have ourselves to blame for the latter.