kpduty

I have a friend who's dating a guy who loves JACKASS. She wants to share in the experience with him, but she hateshateshates JACKASS. Did I know of anything similar that wouldn't gross her out so much?

Well, no, but the question did bring to mind this: the funniest thing I have ever seen on TV, something that to this day still makes me cry when I watch it because I'm laughing so hard. And yes, having watched this video right before posting it here, I cried yet again.

I present KENNY ROGERS'S JACKASS, from MADtv

Tonight The Husband and I are going to see 300. Hopefully I will get a review up, although I doubt it. I've actually been to the movies quite a bit in the last few months, though you wouldn't know it to see the site, because I haven't reviewed any of them. I think I have half of something stored on here somewhere for THE MESSENGERS. Maybe one day it will see the light of day.

Anyway, the review on Salon.com can basically be summed up thusly:

300 is not historically accurate, it's incredibly gay while very homophobic at the same time, and it's not campy enough but doesn't take itself seriously, either.

WTF?

Not to mention that the reviewer didn't even bother to mention whether she liked the movie or not.

Crazily enough, the top story on the site the day before was an article about how the intellectual elites were ruining reading with their demands that everything be overanalyzed: author's intent, cultural relevancy, etc. I could get into it in more detail since I was an English major in college, but I think I've mostly forgotten a lot of it. Mostly.

Hegemonic master narrative.

So in response to the review, I wrote the following comment, which was starred as "Editor's Choice." Because I ROCK OUT.

Editor's Choice

Brass tacks

Ironically, yesterday's cover story was about how we're analyzing the joy out of books.

Can't I just watch some hot guys beat the crap out of each other in peace?

-- I mean, seriously

There you have it. Aren't I awesome?

"I'm gonna fuck you like a bitch, Dingle."

I don't think I mentioned it here, but I'm going to see Taylor Hicks, American Idol Season Five winner, next month with The Husband. I quite like Taylor Hicks. I bought his album (through iTunes, which was a huge mistake because the damn thing won't burn right). I may or may not have a wallpaper of him downloaded to my computer. But my days of obsessive Duran Duran stalking-type behavior is long over and done with. No more magazines saved in boxes in the basement. No more jackets. No more buttons. Maybe a sticker and t-shirt here and there, but only ironically.

So today with a lack of desire to do work, I went to a fan site that's since morphed into his official fan blog complete with podcasts and whatnot. Occasionally they have free downloads, and if I'm anything, I'm cheap. So I'm really bored today, and start poking around on their tour boards. Just to see what's going on: are there special happenings at the venue, pictures, audio?

It's a nightmare about a room full of horny, crazy, fat ladies.

The women going to the show I'm attending are apparently all coming in from out-of-town. They want to have dinner together, but every single one of them is on a special diet, and have long, drawn out hard luck stories about the horror of eating out because of their special diets. They have purchased strings of beads for themselves to wear to the show, supposedly to show solidarity but much more likely to hopefully draw enough attention to themselves that Taylor will want to sleep with them. If that doesn't work, they're all wearing homemade name tags which may feature the slogan, "Taylor Hicks opened a window on soul" or "to my soul" or some crazy shit. HOLY FUCKING CRAP. I didn't think up shit like this when I was twelve.

The best is they're keeping track of where everyone is sitting, I guess to better position the gigantically huge homemade sign they're taking that says, "TAYLOR PLEEZ FUK US." But it won't be vulgur because it will have glitter hearts and pictures of kittens on it. They shelled out shitloads of money the day the tour was announced to get seats, and they're all like, "I'M RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE, BUT THERE'S SOME BITCH WHO'S RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, SHE'S A BITCH DOES SHE THINK SHE KNOWS TAYLOR OR SOMETHING SHE'S NOT ALL THAT."

I was cheap and got general admission tickets, and it turns out GENERAL ADMISSION IS IN FRONT OF THE SEATED SECTIONS.

I'm in front of them, HA-ha.

GOD I HATE PEOPLE SO MUCH.

Maybe I need beads.

Or Prozac. Probably Prozac.

Taylor Hicks probably won't want to sex me up if he reads this and sees how big of a bitch I am, will he?

After all conversation about American Idol had been exhausted, my co-worker tells me she and her husband got all caught up in one of those news shows, Dateline or Primetime or whatever the fuck. It was the ultimate tale of survival, and it got me to thinking.

See, the story goes something like this, and since I didn't see it myself I have no idea what actually happened so I'm going to make some shit up that sounds like it's flowing in a logical order:

There's this guy who's a diver, and the ultimate place to go diving is this place in Africa. It's like one of those big ass cave systems like in The Descent or something. So while he's down there, he discovers an enormous cave. He hooks up with a team of African divers to explore it, and they discover a huge lake and a cavern large enough to house the Eiffel Tower.

Unfortunately, the dude dies during one of the dives. His father's all like, that sucks, but he died doing what he loved. His mother's like, fuck that shit, I want his body so I can give him a proper burial. This is no easy task, because dude didn't die in an easily accessible section of the cave.

So they hire another dive team to retrieve the body. Someone somehwere has to be thinking this is a pretty shitty idea, but no, down they go; and because of the way the cave system is constructed, they need to go down single file.

The guy at the very bottom of the pile is for some goddamn reason wearing a camera on his helmet instead of a flashlight. He's holding his flashlight in his hand. He finds the body and has to put it in a sack to have it hauled up. Something goes horrifically wrong (as it always does in situations such as this): he has to let go of the flashlight to bag the body and doesn't see all the lines and tubes and cables getting tangled up, and the bottom guy ends up dying. This is, of course, all caught on tape thanks to the camera on his helmet. The next guy up the line almost doesn't make it himself; it's so touch-and-go that they tell his wife to prepare for the worst. The thing is, because of how far down the cavern is, it takes them an hour or so to get down to it, but it takes almost twelve hours for them to surface because of decompression. But as he's coming up he tells the next guy in line that the guy below him found the kid's body and had it in the bag, and they actually aren't that far down.

So they end up hiring a second dive team to go down, and they are able to retrieve the bodies.

Now here are my evil, evil thoughts: first of all, how fucked up is it that you'd risk other people's lives to retrieve a dead body? Second, this sort of shit happens ALL THE TIME. You hear about it on the news, someone gets trapped on a mountain while they're climbing, the rescue team gets stuck or lost and a second team comes in to get them. Here's my thought:

Why do they never hire the second team first? I mean, if they are SO GOOD at what they do that they're able to rescue stranded people AND the teams send to find them, wouldn't THEY be the go-to guys?

Also, about the phrase, "They died doing what they loved." I had this thought following the Atlanta bus tragedy a few weeks ago, when the baseball players and bus driver died when their bus crashed over an overpass. Many people said the baseball players, en route to a game, died doing what they loved.

I'm like, what, riding on a bus?

No use yelling at me for being a mean bitch, I'm already well aware that I'm going to hell, thank you.

Also, Crank is the bestest movie ever, and Jason Statham is my new imaginary boyfriend.

It's so shitty: it's nothing but a collection of opinion pieces written by people who screech and complain so much you can totally imagine them tearing their hair out as they write. The letters to the editor (except for mine, of course) are consistantly written by shrill uberfeminists with their panties all in a bunch. All I have to say is, thank god I had enough sense not to renew my subsciption. Now all I have to do is try to steer my mouse toward TMZ.com whenever I get the urge to go to Salon. My blood pressure and my sanity will be the better for it.

So Sunday, The Husband and I go over to The Husband's Boyfriend's house for a little cooking out action. After everyone was done eating, we popped in a movie: HOSTEL, which The Husband has wanted to see for a while. I have to admit, after all the gore I've seen in films in the last few years, I still didn't want to watch it because I thought it'd be way over the top. Like pins in eyes for 90 minutes. It actually wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting. It was far more vile with its constant parade of boobies.

Anyway, HOSTEL was pretty good. So we go home, and we're downstairs in the home office fucking around (I'm on Fark.com and The Husband's trying to put the new hard drive in my computer). After about a half hour, a stench worse than the breath of Satan wafting from the depths of Hell permeates the air. My eyes begin to water.

"Holy fuck," I say, "Did Tess just shit?" referring to our eldest cat--she who is prone to nasty bouts of smelly diahrrea.

The Husband stalks to the area of the basement where the litter boxes are housed. "Nope," he replies, "It's Buster." Our newest addition, he is also prone to nasty bouts of diahrrea, but he at least tries to mitigate the damage by dragging random plastic bags and pieces of paper from around the basement to cover his poop. He's a trooper, he is.

The quiet sifting of litter comes from behind me. Then, a scream.

"AAAAAHHHHH!," The Husband cries. I jump from the chair (about as well as you can "jump" when you're a big ol' fattie) and poke my head around the door frame.

"Buster's got worms!" he cries, shoving a litter scoop at me, sawdust covered piece of poop right in the center.

And sticking up from the center of that sawdust covered piece of poop is about an eighth of an inch segment of glistening white worm, twirling its head in circles, looking for another ass to crawl into.

Heroically swallowing my bile, I get a baggie in which to put the poop for the inevitable next day trip to the vet. Then Buster went into the back bedroom to be quarantined. Then showers were had, the bed was stripped and redressed, and the other two cats were banished to any area of the house which was as far away from me as possible.

The vet said Buster had a tapeworm.

I swear to you, I do too. I imagine it is like Cthulhu, waiting to spawn from my ass and take over the world. I have been methodically checking my own poop.

The tapeworms, they are everywhere.

The vet swore people cannot get tapeworms from their pets: it is a six-month long process involving ingestion of infected fleas.

It matters not. I saw the horrid creature, reaching up for daylight from a steaming pile of feces.

Holy fuck, that's nasty.

Cats suck. Don't ever get a cat, unless it's one that doesn't have an ass for a tapeworm to come out of.

I want a Stephen Fry. I would take good care of him, I swear. I would walk him twice a day, and feed him the best food. I would fix him up a little room in the basement with his own bed and lots of toys. I would play with him all the time and take good care of him. And we would have tea at four p.m. every day and I would listen to him talk about stuff but he'd be super smart and I wouldn't understand any of it, but it would be awesome.

So can I have my own Stephen Fry? Please? If you get me a Stephen Fry, I would love you forever.

Saw BLADES OF GLORY last night. It was okay: hilariously funny in parts that were few and far between, with some ha-ha moments in between. Definitely dollar movie material. I was glad we saw a free preview. ANYWAY, that is not the point of this.

This is: the final move Farrell and Heder do in their routine at the end of the movie is a Pamchenko Twist from the movie THE CUTTING EDGE, but with the thrower doing a butterfly (or death drop, they differ in the take-off) while the throwee is in the air.

Just so you know.