Video Game Predicts Future

The trouble between Russia and Georgia is disturbing, but not as disturbing as a video game predicting it back in 2001.

Tom Clancy’s Ghost Recon, for Xbox and Playstation 2, depicts Georgian revolutionaries struggling against the Georgian government in South Ossetia. The game continues with a full-scale invasion by Russian forces, and the fall of the Georgian government.

“If Ghost Recon's uncanny trend continues, we can expect the South Ossetia conflict to culminate in a dramatic assault on Red Square and the Kremlin by NATO troops -- spearheaded by an elite US special forces team under the control of a pimply fourteen-year-old with a joypad. Considering that the most recent game in the Ghost Recon series climaxes with an oh-so-narrowly-averted terrorist nuclear strike on the US, we hope the predictive power of the game runs out. Soon.”

So we here at Gorgeous thought about what other video games might have predictive powers:

--In 2011, a greasy Italian immigrant will stumble upon another dimension while removing a pubic hair clog from the drain of a 52-year-old Brooklyn woman with diabetes. Go kart racing ensues.

--Due to energy shortages and an increasingly dismal economy, people have taken to underground fighting as a way to make ends meet. In July 2013, these underground fights begin to be loosely organized by a Thai crime syndicate leader, M. Bison. Due local police decide to pursue higher priority crimes, allowing these fights to occur on the street. Also, magic is invented in 2012.

--In the year 2027, a brilliant but deviously mad robotics scientist names Dr. Albert Wily creates a series of androids, each with a different and special gift for destruction. Dr. Wily is bent on overthrowing various world governments, and must be stopped at all cost. A joint US-Japanese coalition, headed by Dr. Thomas Light, develops a counter-terrorism android, capable of adapting it’s arsenal as it defeats his terrorist counterparts.

--Due to the polluting of the environment by discarded medications, hormones, and steroids, the world has seen a development of super-intelligent and abnormally large animals. One such animal, a rare blue hedgehog, travels the world to collect coins.

--The year is 2633 A.D., and an alien army by the name of Red Falcon plans to invade Earth. Our only hope: two ripped dudes with no shirts and really big guns. We send Bill Rizer and Lance Bean to the enemy’s island headquarters to kick some ass. Headbands optional, but preferred.

--The NFL decides 28 teams was enough, and so dissolves the Panthers, Jaguars, Titans, Texans, and Ravens for its 2015 season. The league also reinstates the Houston Oilers. To create more intense games and bigger blitzes, teams can only use four run plays and four pass plays. Touchdown celebrations are cracked down on, with the only legal ones being a) if scored on a run play, the ball carrier may jump into the arms of another player, b) if the ball is caught for a touchdown, the receiver may spike the ball while running, and hold a “number one” finger in the air, and c) if the ball is thrown, the quarterback may raise both arms in the air, and do a turn-around fist slam. Also, Barry Sanders is cloned.

Yep, More Bacon

Because we promised you 101 ways...

51. Bacon grease created Tecmo Super Bowl and Mario Kart
52. Bacon grease was John McCain's third-grade teacher
53. Bacon grease allowed Louis Pasteur to take credit for pasteurization
54. Bacon grease wrote and directed Manos: Hands of Fate
55. Bacon grease stormed Omaha Beach
56. Bacon grease was a founding member of the Freemasons
57. Bacon grease set up Marion Barry
58. The Manhattan Project was originally called Operation Bacon Grease
59. Bacon grease is the motivation for EVERY character Christopher Walken has portrayed
60. Bacon grease is a 21st-level divine cleric in D&D
61. Bacon grease leaked its own sex tape
62. Bacon grease is the basis of Darwinian theory
63. Bacon grease coached the 1972 Dolphins to a perfect season
64. Bacon grease was Deep Throat
65. Bacon grease was an original cast member on SNL
66. Bacon grease hits a 1-iron with ease
67. George Eliot was a pen name of Bacon Grease
68. Bacon grease is in Batman's utility belt
69. Bacon grease was on O.J.'s defense team
70. Bacon grease crafted the Ark of the Covenant
71. Bacon grease is E and MC squared
72. Bacon grease led the fight for women's suffrage
73. Bacon grease created Wikipedia
74. Bacon grease participated in the first Olympiad
75. Bacon grease founded Milwaukee

101 Ways Bacon Grease Changed the World (cont'd)

Another helping, because one can never have enough bacon-related fun.

26. Bacon grease is the solution to the energy crisis
27. Bacon grease, not the fall of the Berlin Wall, reunited East and West Germany
28. Bacon grease discovered the Double Helix
29. Chuck Norris shaves with bacon grease
30. Bacon grease is responsible for Stonehenge
31. Bacon grease banged your mom, and thus, is your father
32. Bacon grease was the lubricant Arthur used to pull Excalibur from the stone
33. Bacon grease brought America out of the Great Depression
34. Bacon grease was the preferred condiment of President Taft
35. Bacon grease started the Crusades
36. Bacon grease escaped the Spanish Inquisition
37. Bacon grease caused the separation of Pangaea
38. The ancient Greek translation of bacon grease means "sweat of the Gods"
39. Bacon grease proved Copernicus wrong long before Galileo
40. Bacon grease, not malaria or typhoid fever, killed Alexander
41. Bacon grease invented the forward pass
42. Bacon grease fueled the Wright brothers' first flight
43. Bacon grease sent Howard Hughes into isolation
44. Bacon grease was Coppola's first choice to play Michael Corleone
45. Bacon grease led the Israelites out of the desert
46. Bacon grease designed Lord Stanley's Cup
47. Bacon grease greeted Columbus at San Salvador with a kick to the berries
48. Bacon grease was the first to turn coca leaves into booger sugar
49. Bacon grease inspires Barack Obama
50. Bacon grease caused the New York blackout in 1977

101 Ways Bacon Grease Changed the World

The first 25, in no particular order of importance or significance:


1. Bacon grease assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand.
2. Bacon grease developed the cure for the bubonic plague.
3. Bacon grease also accidentally helped spread the bubonic plague to England through its various sexual encounters.
4. Bacon grease is the reason Pilates caught on.
5. Bacon grease developed the first artificial heart.
6. Bacon grease is an aphrodisiac for Mexican Spotted Tree Frogs. And fat people.
7. Bacon grease is the reason you lost your virginity.
8. Bacon grease started London’s Great Fire of 1666 when it dropped its cigar. On itself.
9. Bacon grease is the reason beer has bubbles.
10. Bacon grease talked God into giving women breasts. You’re welcome.
11. Bacon grease was the first to practice the Rhythm Method.
12. Bacon grease told your brother you made out with his girlfriend.
13. Bacon grease invented the sport’s bra.
14. Bacon grease built the first casino in Vegas.
15. Bacon grease founded the Guinness Brewery at St. James Gate, Dublin. And immediately got pissed.
16. Bacon grease invented the iambic pentameter.
17. Bacon grease plotted to murder Julius Cesar.
18. Bacon grease deciphered the Rosetta Stone.
19. Bacon grease inappropriately touched your grandma. But that was back when she was hot.
20. Bacon grease wrote the script for Ernest Goes to Camp.
21. Bacon grease wrote A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
22. Bacon grease inspired the character of Hobbes in Calvin and Hobbes.
23. Bacon Grease is what Danny Zuko and the T-Birds’ car was originally called.
24. Bacon grease is the cause of—and the cure for—kidney stones.
25. Bacon grease coined the phrase, “That’s wack.”

The Day No One Noticed: HMNIG Gets 1000th Hit

Yes, the site that loves to hate has reached 1000 hits. And no, I did not sit here all day going to the site over and over until I personally got the 1000th hit (it was only an hour or so). Here are some comments that Gorgeous has recieved since its inception back in...March? February? Who cares...

"Hysterical." - Me

"The best." - Wick

"Better than a ham sandwich." - Freeman McNeil

"Yeah it was a travesty! Wait, what was the question?" - Dude on the street

"Not much for writing, but they look good in those pants!" - Your mom

"Are those unique hits?" - Brian

"I wish I actually contributed to that literary and social masterpiece." - Jay

"Dude, fuckin' do more Birdman!" - Bob

"Seriously? A blog? You're a nerd." Jamie

"Blog about it!!!!!" - Gorski

"Sandra sur une chaise sous la douche..." - This blog

A special thanks to the seven people who read our stuff, and an extra special thanks to the people who check in on it multiple times during the day, thus bumping up our number of hits to slightly more than this shit. And don't forget, our very first post had the disclaimer that we'll write shit whenever we damn well feel like it.

So keep your lousy mouths shut.

For pooping, silly

The family Gorgeous was in town for the weekend so we went to see Cincinnati, minus Ken Griffey, Jr. and YOUR Washington Nationals square off on Saturday night, since pops is a native of southwest Ohio. I only went because I really like the color red.

Our night of ups and downs started shortly after the Metro doors closed at Waterfront station. It was then that a fellow passenger unleashed a gas so foul on our sardine can of a car that the paint on the walls didn't just peel, it ran for cover. One youngster near ground zero described it a cross between "fried chicken and feet." The air quality in Beijing would have been welcome respite from ass-fog in which we were stuck.

Things got worse before they got better, unfortch. I stood in line for half an hour so my dad could enjoy the spiritually radical experience that is the Ben's half-smoke "all the way." It would not have been so terrible had I simply had to endure employee incompetence and malaise. While that did contribute to the first 15 minutes of wait, it was the abandonment of register sans explanation that really boiled my potatoes. The cashier simply stopped what she was doing, grabbed a satchel full of cash and left for the adjacent stand. I should mention said satchel was sitting on a soda machine, well within arms reach of anyone that had a heist on the mind. None of the other cashiers acknowledged the situation, outside of glances at the ever-growing line. No effort was made by other customers to institute an alternating style line merge. I stood in front of the register for a few minutes out of principle, hoping to make a statement with my non-violent protest. Trust that while I was Gandhi on the outside, my brain was awash with visions of Watts. After signaling my frustration with loud, passive-aggressive sigh, I broke the line, resigned to idea of a Nationals Park that will never get it right.

It wasn't all piss and vinegar. The Nats rallied for eight runs in the last three innings against the woefully ineffective Reds' bullpen, Daniel Stern's cinematic masterpiece, Rookie of the Year, was shown on the scoreboard after the game, and I discovered, while looking through the viewfinder on my sister's camera, that by crossing my legs just so, I can make them look like a heinie. Doesn't it always come back to butts?

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Maybe it's karma. I've been meat-free and off the sauce for darn near a month now and I've heard a number of zingers with variations on the same theme; the loss of my manhood. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the joke became an accepted truth.

Cut to yesterday, me in the doctor's office for a routine physical. I should note that I haven't had a physical in quite some time, so I sat through a cornucopia of pokes, prods, shots and the like. Shoot, I might get mistaken for a dope fiend, what with the track marks on both arms. All told I parted with seven vials of vampire fuel, had a TB test, a tetanus shot, and MMR and polio boosters.

Or so I thought. Turns out the medical abbreviation for the polio booster is IPV. An abbreviation the nurse read as HPV. As in Human Papillomavirus. As in an affliction that causes cervical cancer. As in requiring a cervix. The vaccine is administered to WOMEN between the ages of 9 and 26. Breaking news: I fall under NEITHER category. All of this could be gleaned after giving me and/or my chart a once over. Didn't happen, and thus, I'm a third of the way to being immune to a virus to which I'm already 99% immune.

The office informed me of this monumental blunder later in the day. They're checking with Merck to provide me with information that might be useful. I've done some research of my own, and have yet to find out said useful information. Probably because it is a VACCINE FOR WOMEN. Not all is lost however. Since there is still no cap on malpractice suits (a genius policy that has done wonders for the health care system in this country) I figure I can cash in eventually. And what are a couple of freshly-sprouted ovaries when you have a hundred mil?

The National Zoo:

I haven't been to a zoo since I was eight or nine. But I went this weekend, and I was excited. The last time I went I saw a gorilla pee in a bowl, and then stick his face in it. Armed with a hope for further primate hijinks, I entered the National Zoo here in DC.

The first thing I noticed was that the zookeepers let the animals out of their pens. There were wild pigs, wildebeests, and water buffalo everywhere. They were pushing around their piglets in innumerable strollers, feeding at their troughs, and slapping on sunscreen by the gallon. I immediately vomited, and rightly so. Rarely outside of an amusement park have I seen a crowd of such nutritional and intellectual degenerates.

Which species eats more?

In between seeing a panda and some cheetahs I ruminated on the fact that walking through the zoo will surpass the amount of calories most of these people burn throughout the rest of the year. Let alone the only natural light these cretins will be exposed to.

I was desperately hoping someone would fall in the pit...

The best was when I was standing next to the sign that said "Wallaby." Clearly, the wallabies were not around, and the only animal there was an emu. A lady walks up with here family, says "Look (insert shitty 'it' name, like Taylor, Dakota, etc. that will get kid beat up in middle school) there's a wallaby!" Husband, by now beaten down and broken by years of trying to love a woman who can barely spell the word 'zoo,' emits audible sigh while groaning," That's not a wallaby." Wife counters, "But it says that's what it is right there."

Now, I'm certainly no Jack Hanna, but I know the difference between a wallaby and an emu. And even if I didn't, the placard which identifies the animal as a wallaby, which she referenced, has a picture of a wallaby. And they look NOTHING like a large flightless bird. But at least her son won't get beat up for being smart.

Unfortunately, I didn't get any pictures of primate hijinks. I did see one gorilla hump another as the female was lying on the ground. She eventually got up, and went into a private room as he followed her. I sympathized with them, because when I mate I really don't like twenty Chinese tourists staring at me either.

An orang utan picked up a big white sheet, wrapped himself in it, and paraded around his pen, finally proving that orang utans are racists, and from Mississippi.

I caught a video of two golden lion tamarins, small monkeys, smacking each other in the face. Which is, of course, hilarious.

I understand that people reproduce (although I don't like that fact), and I understand that people take their kids to the zoo. But holy shit, these parents pack baby supplies like their setting sail for the New World. And the strollers that house these logistics are the size of all-terrain vehicles, and probably cost more. Never had I hated people and their brats more than I did this weekend.

Especially when I heard one fourth grade dropout tell her kid, "Hey Skyler, look at this!" I immediately laughed, then wondered what this kid looked like. I imagined turning around and seeing Fuller from Home Alone, but it was actually a little girl. I give her ten years till she starts cutting herself.

But the zoo was a great time, despite the humans. I enjoyed seeing all the animals, but I was also saddened by it. First we kill them, then we destroy their homes, then we poison their food. We wonder why there's barely any left, so we grab the remaining ones, stick them in a cage, and parade people in front of them. Retards like the 18 year old (or so) girl I saw walk up to throw a plastic soda bottle away. There was a garbage can, and right next to it a recycling can, CLEARLY labeled "Glass and Plastic." She looks at both, then puts the plastic bottle in the garbage can. That's when I realized she worked at the zoo. If zoos are built to save the animals we destroy, who's saving the human garbage we keep around?

Another Love/Hate List, Now With Less Human Emotion

It’s Tuesday, which means it’s Love/Hate time. Wait...I don’t know what day this list is supposed to be on, since I haven’t written one in months. So now it’s going to be Tuesdays, because I hate Tuesdays.

Love

1. I’m kind of on the fence about this, but I’m leaning toward liking the fact that Jason Taylor is now a Redskin. The team did nothing during the offseason to bolster a weak defensive line, and I think he could bring a much-needed spark to our pass rush. As well as a sweet fouetté en tournant.
2. The Rum Diary by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. A booze-soaked perspective of the gritty hopelessness of San Juan, Puerto Rico, and the false grandeur imagined by American outsiders. Makes me thirsty for some Bacardi.
3. Starting the morning with a Monster Energy Drink. The right amount of caffeine and cocaine to get through the morning.

I wish it were winter so we could freeze it into ice blocks and skate on it and melt it in the spring time and drink it!

4. The fact that Gorgeous has published more than three articles in a month. Congrats to the degenerate winos that inhabit this writing establishment.
5. Flav-o-ice.

Hate

1. Tuesdays.
2. Faux hawks. Even the name drips with homosexuality.
3. Cab drivers in D.C. I haven’t seen one use a turn signal ever. Anytime one pulls ahead of me, I instantly know he’s going to cut me off. But let’s be honest; if you’re going to cut someone off, why would you give them any warning?
4. Homeless people. Because I have no soul.
5. The oppressive, omnipresent, blood-coalescing heat that exists in this godforsaken swamp we call the Nation’s Capital.

Veggie Tales

Every once in a while I get a wild hair to do something shocking, absurd, and downright inexplicable. It is with that preface that I admit I'm off the bird. You heard correctly, no more pork on my fork.

Before you get all up in arms, know that this decision has nothing to do with newfound religious beliefs or a sudden inability to eat something with a face. Intelligent Design, er, evolution gave us incisors for a reason; to cleave through succulent slabs of animal flesh. And the cuter the tastier I say.

"Wook how pwecious." And deeeee-licious

No, lovelies, this is a personal challenge. A friend of the Gorgeous is getting hitched and his bachelor party is closing with an end-all, be-all steak dinner. If absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, I have six weeks to fall in love all over again. It'll be like that first Frisco speedball after a month in detox, which is to say a terrible, yet transcendent, idea.

Fret not for I am still grubbing on fish and other sea creatures. I figure if the sack-loving Catholics don't qualify it as meat there is no reason for me to.

So what will happen? Will this meat deficiency render me Bruce Banner-like; an apoplectic, jort wearing madman wreaking havoc on livestock like the Hulk on stocking-capped no goodniks? Whatever the outcome, you, loyal lovelies, can expect hilarious anecdotes highlighting my vegequarian escapades.

Batman vs Superman: Badass vs Gayass

Hmm, Macy's is having a sale. I guess Superman won't be fighting crime tonight...

This Friday, The Dark Knight opens in theatres across this land. I, for one, am very excited. Not excited enough to have purchased tickets two weeks ago, or buy my Joker face paint in order to complete my costume and "impress the ladies," but, you know, excited. I plan on going Sunday at the earliest, after the masses of fanboys and lunatics have retreated to the dank of their parents' basements and the soft glow of their computer screens.

This next chapter in the long-running Batman saga is the second film in the quote "realistic" unquote interpretation of the character. In other words, the world in which he lives and the circumstances of his heroic origins are potentially believable. This seems to be the theme lately with comic book movies, such as X-Men and Iron Man. With appropriate technological advances or tweaks of nature, these characters could possibly exist. Not likely, but almost.

Especially in the case of Batman. Above all other superheroes, dude could actually exist. Now, there's some theatrical and technological liberties that are taken, but at the crux of it, Batman is a well-trained guy who bags hoodlums. What's so far fetched about that? Answer: NOTHING.

Now look at Superman. Yeah, Batman's outfit is a bit strange. But unless you're talking about Adam West's costume, the other Batsuits are functional. They are armored, house electronics, etc. What's the purpose of a bright blue uniform and red underwear except, of course, to emphasize the package. Batman's cape aids in gliding. Superman's? Compliments his boots.

I'm super, thanks for asking!

Superman has incredible powers, conveniently explained by him being from another planet. Batman earned his abilities through years of training. Is a seven foot tall dude dunking a basketball as impressive as a six foot dude doing it? No, because the seven footer barely has to leave the ground, while the shorter dude actually has to have athletic ability to get there. So it is with Superman and Batman.

And then there's the gadgets. Batman has all the cool shit, a lot of which he invented himself. And everything he has starts with the prefix bat-. Batcave, Batsuit, Batmobile, Batwing, Batboat, etc. Superman has a phonebooth.

I'm telling you, green clashes with your eyes

Batman must hide his crime-fighting alterego from his normal life, that of billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. Superman cowers under the birth control glasses of supernerd Clark Kent. Totally gay, dude. Cooler hangout: The Batcave, which chicks dig, or the Fortress of Solitude, in Antarctica, which chicks think is really cold. Obviously, the Batcave.

Face it: Batman has the cooler uniform, the cooler name, the cooler ride, the cooler crib, the cooler everything. And he's a dude with no superpowers. The dude's just smart. That makes it that much better that he's as badass as he is.

So I'm giddy to see The Dark Knight, especially because it has my favorite villain, The Joker. Jack Nicholson was fantastic as the Joker in the Michael Keaton 1989 version of Batman ("Where does he get those wonderful toys?"), and I think Heath Ledger can so an incredible job too. He looks and sounds great in the previews, and I'm sure the movies won't be a disappointment.

So remember: whenever you need Batman, shine the Batsymbol on the clouds. If you need Superman, play "It's Raining Men" really loudly.

The Pubic Paradox

Ever since the first seeds of manhood were sown in the apparently fertile region between my belt buckle and my inseam, I've been confused. Initially it was because older dudes were constantly demanding that others kiss, lick or suck their "hairy nut sack," so naturally I assumed that pubic hair only grew on the scrotum itself. But then, when I was real little I thought my scrotum was my bladder, and when it hung low it was empty.

So my early-adolescent confusion arose over the location of the first sprouts. When they began to grow (erratically and unsymmetrical at first) above The General, I thought I must be messed up. Eventually, I learned I was normal.

It was during this time that pubes became a symbol of manhood, a fuzzy badge that proclaimed to everyone in gym class "Here I stand! A man!" I recall a guy a year older than me that had to have an operation on his testicles. As is standard for any such procedure, he had to shave his, ah, area. In a bid to preserve his dignity, he refused to shower in gym until genitalia sans pubis was resolved. At the time, everyone agreed it was the best course of action. God forbid someone would think you can't grow hair.

During the next few years, my main question was, "How do pubes know how long to grow?" Is there a specific length programmed into their DNA that keep them from growing out the bottom of your shorts? I remember when I was a kid watching this movie whose title I've long since forgotten. Some kid goes prematurely bald, whether from cancer or not I can't remember. He discovers this ancient (like all good '80's movies, probably Chinese) remedy for hair loss. It was a cream that made hair grow, and it kinda looked like peanut butter. So he decided to put some on his beanbag. Later on you see hair grow out the bottom of his pants. Thank God pubes don't actually do that, because if I had to braid mine I'd never get to work on time.

Kinda like that, but lower...

This predetermined length issue is related to my current pubic question. Even though they have a predetermined length, and it's not too long, it's still long enough to scare people and attract nesting rodents. So the natural answer is to cut it. Trim the hedges. A controlled burn. Besides, the shorter the shrubs, the taller the tree looks.

But again, is this a crime against manhood? Years went by before I got these, and now I'm going to schlack them off like encroaching weeds? However, the benefits greatly outweigh the detriments. Not wearing underwear while wearing jeans is dangerous during zip ups.

So the question became what's the fine line between the aesthetic/utilitarian and the ridicule of others. If they are to be cut, how short. Would I use scissors or clippers. Is shaving them with clippers too short, or is shaving with a razor too short. And if they're shaved, isn't that going to itch like a mother fucker??? Will I look like a porn star if I do it?

The overriding paradox here is this: most females prefer guys to have trimmed pubes. But some guys think guys that do that are gay. So to "be a man" one must do what women don't want, resulting in being an outcast to women, but not to men, who don't think you're gay. But now only men will hang out with you.

Okay, so it's not that earth-shattering.

The bottom line is each man must individually come to terms with his own floral arrangement. As for the final result of my years of pubic ponderings, you'll never know.







Kidding! There's seven galleries right here: http://www.pennypackerspubicpontifications.com/.



Check out the one I call "Viking Goddess."

Fuck

Fuck, fuck, and fuck.

Meandering Nonsensicalities

Buckle up, kiddies, this post is going to swerve around like a souped-up Honda on a Tokyo drift. Giddyup!

Let's start with me, as important (and devilishly handsome) a topic there is. I'd like to tell you that I've got life by the short and curlies; that I've got it all solved. Look, I Get It, and have for a couple years, but when night's like last Saturday happen I question whether my personal apocalypse is closer than I think. The evening started innocently enough, drinking champagne and shootin' the poop with friends. We decided to up the ante a bit and lower the collective sobriety of the room with good old fashioned drinking games. I played with my own bottle of bub because, hey, I'm a classy dude.

Pennypacker and I outlasted everyone, so we returned to his compound to continue the merriment, though by then Lady P. had retired to her chambers. We carried on like a GD sewing circle; me with my Andre and he with his peasant swill. The cards became sloppy and my cerebellum got itchy. Yes, it was indeed time to call it a night.

If only it were that easy, dear reader. I could, and should, have taken a cab, but my palate begged for a taste of adventure. One would have no trouble coming up with a word other than adventure for my 3:00 a.m. inebriated, mile-plus stroll through seedy sections of our federal district. I'm not talking seedy in the hipster, "real" people sense; it was straight sketch.

If I ended my tale here, one might say "what were you thinking, Wick?" Or "you're lucky you weren't on the business end of a shiv." But it isn't the end, oh no friends. I somehow managed to remain lucid enough to patronize the 7-11 as my journey neared its conclusion. On the menu, two Go-Go Taquitos and a Stouffer's microwave mac and cheese. I cracked open a beer I didn't need, and fortunately didn't drink, sat on my couch with my gastronomic delights and watched Dawson's Creek. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Now with the great taste of failure and vanquished dreams

It was a sad state of affairs when I came to; bits of crunchy, melted cheese and plastic in my hair and Joey Potter showing off a vocabulary beyond her years whilst sassing Pacey Whitter for his childish shenanigans.

This is my life...

Birdman Checks in Wit Ya's Again

How ya doin', kids. Dis here's Birdman again. Boy, it's been tough lately for us sooper Philly Phans. Wat wit' da Flyers losin' an' all. Dose fuckin' Pittsburgh hicks. Dey don't know wat real hockey is, do dey! Fuckin' Sooper Mario my ass. My hairy Italian ass!

Wat? Sit da fuck down, Louise! I told you, I'm talkin' here!

Fuckin' woman don't listen, ya know? Hey! How do you tell a woman wit a black eye to shaddap? What, you already told her once! HA!!!

Anyways, it's a fuckin' shame about da Flyers, ya knowhaddamean? I mean, we beat dose fuckin' Caps (who never should have made it to Game Fuckin' 7), den we beat da fuckin' Canadiens, and den...fuck. It's always somethin' wit Philly, ya knowhaddamean?

I mean, shit, when's da last time Philly won anyting? I tink I was just a little bastard runnin' around beatin' up terd graders cause I tawt I had a big set of googats.

Wat do you want, Joey? No, I ain't got time ta take you to da library for dat school shit. Can't you see I got important stuff here? Now run go get your old man anudder can of Bud, will ya's?

Jesus. Fuckin' kids don't know what's right dese days, wat makes sense. (chuckles) It ain't school, I can tell you dat! I never finished seventh grade, an' I'm doin' pretty fuckin' good! I mean, I got my season tickets to da Iggles, don't I? How's dat! Stick dat high school diplorma up your ass, pussies!

Alright. It's gon' be a long summer, kids. We gotta long way until da Iggles play, an' we gotta put up wit' anudder Phillies collapse. But hang in dere. Training camp starts soon, and dat's when the dream starts again. Dis is Birdman, signin' off.

Short and Sweet

Check out this story on child obesity, told as only a Brit could tell. My favorite part:

Mr Duncan said: “This is different to someone just being overweight. These are firm female breasts, something that any woman would be proud of."

We love a tale with booze, rodeo girls and shotguns. Who says stereotypes are outdated?

It might be uncouth to say, but Japan is officially fuckin' bonkers.

The crack staff at The Morning Times is at it again. Jenn Magnussen attempts to write the Worst. Sports. Story. Ever.

HMNIG Movie Review: Meatballs

The 1979 film Meatballs should be celebrated by everyone who thinks comedy is funny. Not necessarily because the film is just that good (it's just ok), but because it's the first feature film and starring role for the man who practically invented comedy, Bill Murray.
The movie takes place at a fictional summer camp, typical of all summer camp movies, like Heavyweights (a superior and much funnier movie overall). There's the usual Indian themes, idyllic lake, various sporting activities, the awkward nerds, the fatbodies, and of course, The Hot Chick. Murray stars as the head councelor, Tripper Harrison. Hijinks ensue.

This movie is Murray's first venture away from Saturday Night Live, and should be remembered as such. That's pretty much all it should be remembered for. The Funniest Man on Earth (title bestowed by me) hasn't yet developed his trademark style, with careless narcissism and clueless bewilderment. Although, there are glimpses. Murray's next well known gig, after 1980's portrayal of Hunter S. Thompson in Where the Buffalo Roam, was the ingenious and oft-quoted Carl Spackler in that immortal motion picture Caddyshack.

The Funniest Man on Earth

Meatballs is full of the usual '70s-'80s shtick, heavy on sex and drug references. Although, it is a bit more inspired than some other comedies of the era. It was directed by Ivan Reitman, who went on to direct Murray in Stripes and the two Ghostbusters movies. He also produced those three movies, and well as other classics like Animal House, Space Jam, Road Trip, and Old School. So Meatballs is at least worth something as an early effort on Murray and Reitman's part.

So check it out. Or don't. I don't really give a shit.

We're Back

My sincerest apologies to our reader for our absence as of late. The emails you didn't write and concern you didn't express failed to move us. I have recently returned from a two week excursion to 'R Kansas, where I dodged a tornado, multiple lightning strikes, a water moccasin, and a golf-ball-hungry turtle. Not to mention the locals.

I did, however, experience multiple Penn State props.

At a gas station in North Little Rock, I walked in wearing a Penn State shirt. The dude says, "You went to Penn State for real?" Upon responding in the affirmative, he says, "Word." Yeah, dude. Word.

While playing golf with my PSU hat and rain jacket on, one of the guys I was playing with said, "Ok, where's your ball at, JoePa." At that point, I had no idea, and had already lost two balls. It was a rough one and a half holes. But Joe got recognized.

While wandering the streets of Nashville, dude says, "You go to Penn State?" I said ineed I had, to which he replies, "That's a good team, man." I mumble something between 'not while I was there' and 'we'll see,' which came out as "Not while I'll see." My ensuing embarrassment at my loss of motor skills caused to act like I was looking across the street so I didn't have to walk near him anymore. Don't catch me off guard like that pal. I get flustered.

In the famous country bar Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, I sat down to a Budweiser and some live country music. Upon spotting my hat, three different people yelled "Penn State!" and shook my hand. I asked the one dude if he had gone there, but he was too boozed up and amused with himself to answer one way or the other.

All that recognition surprised me, especially in Tennessee. I even stayed in Knoxville on the way out, and recieved no shit from anyone. I guess UT fans have really bad memories, noone cares about The Outback Bowl, or they're just not as big into football as I had thought. I'm going to go with the first two. Especially the second.

I really wish I had remembered my camera on this trip, especially so I could post some pictures on here. My favorite was a large billboard that read, "Save Your Children's Lives...Use a Stick On Them." This was brought to you by a church, who are the only one's who can get away with telling you to beat your kids. Another one proclaimed "JESUS LIVES" in letters fifteen feet tall. If this were true, wouldn't we know about it? The Second Coming is bound to be a big deal, and I don't think 'R Kansas could contain it.

Plan on us having a lot more articles on here beginning in the next week. And the first week of June we will have a few spots about our sure-to-be-debaucherous week at Dewey Beach. Stay posted.

Go Speed Racer, Gooooooooooooooooo

We, the Gorgeous, have slacked off in recent weeks. I assure you it is through no fault of our own and that we will rectify it soon. I just got word from Pennypacker that his animal cruelty/indecent exposure/public drunkenness trial is about to wrap up so he'll rejoin us soon (don't judge; after a quart of moonshine and two isolated weeks in North Little Rock horses start to look mighty purdy). My annual methadone treatment is finally over and I'm overcome with a sense of calm and palatable lethargy. Breathe easy cats, though this post is short, we come back full strength next week.

Meanwhile, the Speed Racer flick comes out this weekend. I was never a big fan of the cartoon, even when it enjoyed a renaissance in the late 90's. I dug the DJ Keoki tune, more for the Trixie and Speed sex "scene" than anything else (don't judge here either; I was an amped up, hormone-addled teenager, a new pair of corduroy pants would put me at attention). That said, I am excited for the movie, but not for reasons you might expect. If I was someone that ate 'shrooms, this would be screaming my name, since it'd be like existing in the world of Mario Kart for 90 minutes. But I don't so it doesn't. If, however, 'shrooms are the kind of thing you get down on, let me know how it is.

What the shit am I doing on Rainbow Road??

Secondly, the Wachowski brothers' tripped out computer graphics might be enough to throw kids into a seizure-iffic tizzy. I figure we can count on a couple two, tree to keep us elbow deep in giggles.

Until next time, this is your captain of mental agility saying so long...

A Rarity: Post from Arkansas

Defying stereotypes and conventional wisdom, I am sitting here writing a post from North Little Rock, Arkansas. I know, I know. I'm surprised there's electricity here, too. I'm out here for two weeks for a military course, the details of which would give you a coma. Suffice to say I am not happy being here, and the course is merely the tip of the iceberg.

Do I have to?

There is nothing here. Seriously. Literally. Suicidally. North Little Rock, the aptly named suburb north of the Arkansas River from Little Rock, is a depressing shithole that reminds me of the poor, run-down areas surrounding New Orleans. Yards are overgrown, cars are rundown, and the buildings are shabby and in disrepair. But enough of that. Let's get to the good stuff.

Little Rock, NOT North Little Rock

The guy next to me in the course, who has been here a few times, told me of North Little Rock Mall. Having nothing better to do last night, I decided to check it out. So I followed his directions, and shortly came to a strip mall called North Little Rock Mall that consisted on A JoAnn's Fabrics and a Smoothie King. I wanted to kill that dude.

Luckily, right down the road I found a Blockbuster. Having nothing better to do during these two weeks, this was a lifesaver. I went in, and noticed the latest Lou Diamond Phillips blockbuster called Lone Rider. Once I got past the captivating and original title, I noticed it also starred Vincent Spano, who is of course Jesse's older brother. He graduated from Bayside when Mr. Belding was still vice principal. As it turned out, I didn't rent this epic saga, although I felt really bad for Richie Valens.

LDP

I really wish I had remembered to bring my camera, because there's just certain things that mere words can't convey, like the sense of utter hopelessness that radiates from this area. I'm not sure what Little Rock is like, I don't think I'll be going there. Maybe it's better, but probably not. Maybe that feeling comes from the fact that this area is prone to tornadoes, severe flooding, and remembering it's in Arkansas.

A state which, by the way, really sucks. Crossing the Mississippi River from Memphis, the first two miles of the state was flooded. That's not an exaggeration. Immediately after that I saw Wal-Mart. Then another one. And another. One every exit, in fact. And apparently, North Little Rock has two within two miles of each other. Although one is a (trumpets) Super Wal-Mart.

Well, I've only been here two days so far. I'll get back to you wierdos after I experience some more the The Natural State. And by the way, when I checked the site right before I wrote this, I was the 500th visitor. That means people are actually reading this drivel. I like that. Keep up the good work, ya bastards.

Good Idea - Bad Idea

Good Idea - Spending the weekend on the Rappahannock River with friends.
Bad Idea - Waiting for Boss to shower before we left. Seriously, for a dude with no hair it takes him an epic amount of time in the bathroom (and I do mean epic, I finished The Iliad while waiting).

Good Idea - A day on a boat.
Bad Idea - Splashing owner of said boat while boarding with all the grace of a wet St. Bernard.

Good Idea - A cooler of ice cold beer.
Bad Idea - Letting Boss convince me that a 24 oz. Steel Reserve could fall under the "Good Idea" umbrella

Kryptonite on steroids

Good Idea - Smoking a Black & Mild to deter bugs
Bad Idea - Smoking a Black & Mild when you already have a righteous chest cold

Good Idea - Playing cards to wind down the day
Bad Idea - Playing drinking games with cards after the aforementioned Steel Reserve

Good Idea - Eating Sheetz to cure what ails you
Bad Idea - Eating Sheetz to cure what ails you

Blue/White 2008

The sun rose early that morning, crowning over Mt. Nittany and washing the Sacred Ground in its light. Beaver Stadium responded in kind, redirecting the light off its windows, beams, and flagpoles. The Bryce Jordan Center tried to do the same, but realized only shitty teams play there. Somewhere between the two, the caravan arrived.

I haven’t been to the annual Blue and White Game at Penn State since 2005, a fact that I made sure everyone in attendance was well aware of. I wanted to make this a good tailgate, and had to make everyone aware that it had damn well better be.

Our tailgate area was in the grass next to the stadium, a lush section of turf that I credit to the Turfgrass Management majors. Within the first hour I had my sandals off and was prancing barefoot through the dark green shoots. That lasted until the dogs started peeing everywhere. Then I had another beer and the sandals came off again.

The Bloody Mary bar opened early, immediately followed by beer pong. Some of the guys we were tailgating with had the Drinko board going, with proceeds benefitting the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Proceeds from beer pong benefitted the Get Pennypacker Drunk society. Donations were large and tasty.

Everything went well. I saw some good friends, people I hadn’t seen in a while, and nothing got out of control. Even the mandatory flip cup game was mild, despite Steve’s glorious proclamations from on high. There were even only two high-lows doled out. But the one was AWESOME, we thought dude broke his neck. It was well executed by myself and Jason.

Don't interrupt him, just look how happy he is!

Towards the end of the day, the cars started to leave. Around this time, certain individuals decided to behave like their canine pals and piss in the open field. Since most Penn State tailgates bring in extra uniformed and undercover cops from outside State College, this probably wasn’t the best idea. Hell, a few years ago I got busted by undercovers for taking a slice of pizza from an unmanned tailgate.

Overall, a great time. I didn’t get too drunk (rare), I hung out with some good friends, and the next day my sandals smelled like piss. Dog or human, I’ll never be able to figure out.

A Retort

Well, Mr. Danforth, allow me to retort.

(clears throat)
(adjusts package)

1. Coors Light. Get to know their audience. We’re talking NASCAR-watching, Skoal-chewing, wife-beating, shotgun-racking, pickup-loving, Mossy Oak Breakup-wearing, trailer-living Americans. Do they go to bars in the middle of the day? Do they order more than one beer for themselves? Do they have a bunch of friends with similar work ethics? Do they need to be told when their beer is cold? The answer to all these question is a qualified ‘yes.’

2. Taco Bell. Bacon DOES trump all. Beauty is in the sizzle.

3. Tropicana Pure Valencia. I’ve caught you jerking off to The Food Network. And I’m talking about the close-ups of seared tuna steak, not Giada De Laurentiis. So don’t tell me that hot, sweating fruit doesn’t put a banana in your pants, buddy. And I don’t know about you, but I wanna fuck that juice.

(adjusts package)

4. I actually agree with you on this one. Dammit.

HMNIG Hits Milestone: 389th Hit

Everyone's favorite Website That They Don't Know About Yet has hit a huge milestone: we got our 389th site hit.

I know what you're all thinking: no way that many people read this slop. Well, I got news for you: they don't. When the writers check the page every half hour to see if one of the other writers has put any new filth up, the totals add up. In fact, one day I single-handedly put 32 hits on. So, doing the math: total readership is up to eight people. Awesome.

Open Letter Wednesday

The issue with which I take umbrage this week involves so many different people, I don't know who to address. Listen up ad agencies, this week's ire is directed at you...

To Whom It May Concern:

Y’all are starting get under my craw. Last night I endured a four commercial stretch so immeasurably terrible I nearly popped my eyes out with a grapefruit spoon. Each represented problems I’ve long had with ad agencies. Allow me, if you will, to play Joe Everyman and take you to task for ruining America.

Coors Light Code Blue kicked off the run like the tines of a fork on a ceramic plate. To summarize, man orders bucket of Coors Light, bottles are blue (signifying they are cold and ready to drink), man calls friends, friends drop everything and join him at the bar. My questions: Why is one guy ordering a bucket of beer in the middle of the day, and a work day at that? Why does everyone he calls beat feet to join him in his alcoholic afternoon? This brings up an important issue, that being the idea of drinking responsibly. How can Coors display the “Please Drink Responsibly” message with a straight face when everyone in the commercial is shirking responsibility to down some Rocky Mountain refreshment? It is patently absurd and a middle finger to the collective intelligence of the audience, though making a label that turns blue to tell the drinker his or her beer is cold enough takes care of that already.

Listen, I know Taco Bell can trot out any lame commercial and still sell the bejesus out of there Maybe Mexican. Hell, they could have Pol Pot, Stalin and the current line-up of “talent” on MTV kicking puppies and hawking the Cheesy Gordita Crunch and I’d buy one. However, the commercial for the new Bacon Club Chalupa is plain disturbing. Two attractive young women go to a bar and one is armed with said Chalupa in hopes of drawing the attention of a gentleman caller. Seriously? It used to be that a pretty young lovely with low self esteem could just spread her legs, now she has to provide snacks? What kind of message is this to girls in America? Sure, you might be beautiful and funny and intelligent and have a lot to offer in general. You might even put out. But bacon trumps all that, so plan accordingly.

Sex sells, period. In fact, I’ve written on the subject and the idea that it is as good a propaganda tool as there is. We’ve gotten to a point where everything is sexualized. Food porn is all the rage, and as somewhat of a foodie I can tolerate it when it appears where it belongs, i.e. Top Chef and other food related programming. I don’t want to see it in commercials for juice though. Of course I’m talking about the commercial for Tropicana Pure Valencia. Seductive voice over, extreme close-ups of perspiring fruit, pools of juice exploding with delight, you get the picture. Here is what I want to think while watching a juice commercial, “Mmm, juice. I bet that would be tasty with breakfast or after a long night of drinking.” Here is what I don’t want to think, “Oh man, I wanna fuck that juice.” See the difference? Is it wrong that I want my juice to be a thirst quencher and not a dirty whore?

Of all the commercial tactics that piss me off, using British actors for voice overs to convey luxury is my most hated. ALL BRITS ARE NOT SMARTER AND MORE DIGNIFIED THAN AMERICANS! They just aren’t. It is a stereotype that is pandered to far too often and could just as easily be turned on its head with the Brit-as-drunken-hooligan stereotype that doesn’t get as much play. Come to think of it, if some company were brave enough to hire that archetype to sell me a car I’d be signing papers today.

It is truly unfortunate you, advertising agencies on the whole, can’t evolve past the same styles on which you have relied for years. Some companies are so successful, I’m not sure why they even need to advertise, especially if they are going to continue to produce crap ads. Given that it has been this way since time immemorial, I should get used to the formulaic nature of the industry. But I don’t want to, and you, as advertisers, shouldn’t want to either. Sell me a car because I need to drive, juice and beer because I need to drink and Taco Bell because I’m stoned. Is that so much ask?

Ready to buy,

Brunswick P. Danforth

Stop Multiplying

I read today, by accident, that the uglier Simpson sister may or may not be having a baby with the homo from Fall Out Boy. And Beyonce may or may not have gotten pregnant by Jigga's spizza. All of which leads me to believe the world is going to end.



At the risk of sounding irrational, let me explain. First, the facts:

1. Women have babies.
2. Celebrity women have babies.
3. Women love celebrities.
4. Women love babies.
5. People are stupid.

It is a slightly well-known fact that women have babies. Women also love celebrities. We stand at a point in history where every wipe of every celebrity ass is documented in twenty-three different mediums within four minutes of said event. Therefore women know enerything there is to know about these people, including their kids. They love them. They want their own. So women have kids.

It doesn't help that every B-list hack is celebrated for reproducing, even though any retard with an IQ higher than a ham sandwich can put the round peg in the round hole (although he may get the wrong hole). This, in my opinion, has made women think that pregnancy and motherhood is something that should happen NOW, and multiple times afterwards.

And so the planet is turning into a poor Bolivian farming family. Everyone wants kids, and lots of 'em. So they start popping out fuck trophies like they're an assembly line. Pretty soon the world population is tipping 10 billion.

Which brings me to my initial point. Celebrity babies = we're all gonna die.

Open Letter Wednesday

This week's recipient, Sean Penn, who recently pulled off an incredible feat...

Sean Penn
c/o ID Public Relations
8409 Santa Monica Blvd.
West Hollywood, CA 90069

Dear Mr. Penn,

I’ve had some time to digest the recent developments in your personal life, and I am still baffled. You were filing for divorce, had a girlfriend, and then called off the divorce. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this considering the dichotomy that exists in your day-to-day; you are a respected actor and filmmaker, yet at the same time you are a self-aware, pretentious, douchey blowhard. That said I have to applaud your divorce/reconciliation for two reasons.

First, you managed to stay with Robin for 17 years, the past 12 in holy matrimony. That is no easy feat in Hollywood. Kudos, sir. But no sooner had word of your impending divorce become public and you were stepping out with HMNIG’s Most Perfect Possessor of a Pair of X Chromosomes, Petra Nemcova. Kudos again. Fast forward a month or so and the divorce is off, so what gives? To be honest, I’m not all that fascinated by Pearl Jam being the driving force in Robin and you rekindling. No, I’m fascinated, and downright flabbergasted, by how you made this all happen in the first place. To summarize, a decision was made to divorce, you tossed a few fucks into HMNIGMPPPXC, and then convinced the missus to give love another go. Whaa whaa whaaat? Who are you Sean Penn, and what magical power do you wield?

Secondly, and on a more serious note, you helped further the cause of same-sex marriage. Stick with me here as I explain. The religious right and everyone else that opposes gay marriage have some ‘splaining to do. One can’t cry about sullying the sanctity of marriage when things like this happen. It doesn’t work that way. These folks love to show up to protest civil unions or anything resembling dude on dude or lady on lady marriage, yet I’ve never heard about protests happening at divorce proceedings. Where’s the outrage there? As long as the divorce rate (45-50% for first marriages, 60-67% for second, and a whopping 70-73% for third*) is higher than the rate of those that stay together, sanctity of marriage cannot and will not be accepted as a viable argument against gay marriage. Sure you can show me in the Bible (a book that can’t possibly be taken literally at every turn) where it disapproves of gay anything, yet can you show me a passage that allows for adultery? And on the subject of adultery, that shit is in the Commandments. Moses talked to God Himself to get that scoop. Last I checked not one of the 10 said anything about same-sex marriage.

You should really write a book or at least an essay on the topic. You’ve given hope to a wide range of folks, from those suffering from Restless Penis Syndrome, guys looking for extra-marital coitus without consequence, and all the Jim’s that want to marry John’s and Joan’s that want to marry Jane’s. You are an inspiration to many Mr. Penn, and despite my own disdain for you as a person, I tip my hat to you.

Learning about Cuba, and having some food,

Brunswick P. Danforth

*statistics from Americans for Divorce Reform

Why I Suck

Because I didn't post a Why You Suck yesterday. I'm off my game. I'm off the wagon. I'm off the map. I deserve punishment, because the four people who read this page deserve a weekly post to be there every week on the day it's supposed to be! DAMN ME!!! Actually, I've been gone most of the week preparing for a Middle East expedition. We will be looking for the Valley of the Crescent Moon. All we have to go on is a map, a map with no names. According to the second marker, the starting point is Alexandretta, or the present-day city of Iskenderun, Turkey.

Apparently, now I'm off-topic. Anyway, this week I suck. But don't worry, there's plenty more out there for me to hate.

Open Letter Wednesday

It's Wednesday again and you know what that means. Yes, more mind-numbing hours of American Idol, but also another open letter. This weeks recipient, that fickle mistress, Mother Nature.

Mother Nature
8 Omnipresent Circle
Land-of-Whimsy, The Ether 10009

Dear Mom,

I don’t mean to be disrespectful, really I don’t, but you’re being a bitch. I don’t know why you and Father Time are fighting, but you have to figure something out for the sake of your children. If you had doubts about the marriage, you should have divorced a long time ago. Rarely does having another kid, let alone another billion, help the relationship.

The bickering has to stop. It’s April for crying out loud and I don’t know whether I’ll need a parka or UV protection on a day to day basis. I get it, you’re both stubborn and you don’t want to give in to him, but you need to pick your battles. The two of you need to decide a schedule and stick to it. It isn’t his fault he is tasked with overseeing a man-made creation, just as it isn’t yours that you are responsible for the weather on this crazy rock. The least you can do is compromise.

I’m confident we can reach a settlement that both parties are happy with considering no pre-nup was signed. Papa Time basically gives you all winter to go nuts as is, and March and April already have their own bonkers weather related –isms. All we, your spawn, are asking is for some consistency; we can handle the April showers, so long as they are of the rain, not snow, variety. And would more 65 degree days in April be too much to ask? It is spring after all. I won’t speak for all of us, but I’d be willing to allow more intense summer storms and would turn the other cheek to an occasional October cold spell, so long as you continue with an Indian summer day here and there.

You and dad got yourselves into this mess (with help from a quart of Mad Dog 20/20 and Springsteen’s sold out Asbury Park show in ’78) and it is up to you to come up with a resolution. We’re your kids, and we support you, but know that drawing this out isn’t doing us any favors. When most parents fight, they throw dishes; you’re dropping Connecticut-sized swaths of ice into the ocean. It’s excessive and a little scary. Make things right for the kids, always FTK.

Temperately confused,

Brunswick P. Danforth

Starbucks: A Dilemma

There are plenty of reasons to hate Starbucks and Howard Schultz and hate them I do. Aside from ruining the Supes, Schultz also contributed the eight-word coffee order to modern culture and turned coffee into a fashion statement, a ubiquitous accessory in the hands young Hollywood (after all, what better than caffeine to ease a coke hangover?) What happened to a straight cup o' joe, Howie?

"I'd smile, but I'm using all my energy to carry this giant cup"

I prided myself on successfully avoiding Starbucks entirely when I lived in Seattle, except to go into the original to purchase Pike Place Blend, only available at said location, for friends and family. Only available there until today that is. And there, folks, is the dilemma.

The famous, formerly unique, blend was rolled out at stores across the country today with great fanfare. The original, randier logo even adorns the cups. I ordered a cup with great enthusiasm, but later faced a question that has shaken me to my core; with the recent addition of Top Pot donuts (another Seattle favorite) to the menu, is Starbucks making irrelevant the few local touches it still possessed?

Sadly, I think the answer is yes. Part of the charm of the Pike Place location was being able to get something you couldn't at one of the thousands of other soul-sucking outposts. Now anyone can bop down to one of the four Starbucks on one's block and get a cup of PPB fresh-roasted that day in York, PA (as mine was today). To put this into perspective, it would be like Giordano's offering deep-dish pie in Charlotte, by way of Raleigh. There is something inherently wrong with that. And Top Pot? They serve their own coffee, why oh why would they get into bed with Schultz? I can only assume that Starbucks has a horse dong that is both gentle and satisfying at the same time, metaphorically speaking.

We live in an age where people want what is hip and trendy and famous, without having to leave their comfort zone for the experience. Guess what, nob goblins? An old-fashioned and a grande half-caf soy latte with whip from a strip mall in Flint, MI will never be as good as on the Market steps (even if the drink order makes me want to smack you). Until I can wrap my brain around why you, the collective, think otherwise, another piece of me will blacken and die.

Love/Hate List

Another Friday, another Love/Hate List. This one will be abbreviated, since I was actually doing work today.

Love

-Snapple Diet Raspberry Iced Tea has zero calories and tastes AWESOME.

-Utz regular potato chips have four billion calories and taste AWESOME.

-The Rolling Rock I bought last night. Tasted AWESOME.

-Although I blew through three seasons of The Wire in about two weeks, there's still one more on DVD and the final one yet to be brought to DVD. Bodymore, Murderland lives on.

-The Capitals are still in the playoff hunt, with about 19 scenarios existing that would put them in.

Hate

-The dream last night where I was in a toy store looking for Marbleworks (R), wanted to get a train car with a crane on it, and somehow ended up running for my life from The Predator. Yeah. THAT Predator. I don't know if it was somehow related to the intense tooth ache I had or not. P.S., I didn't even know they still made Marbleworks until I wrote this and searched for them. I think I'm going to get some.

-The enormous influx of tourists in DC. Hey, I get it; it's a big tourist town, I have to live with it. But it doesn't mean I have to slow down at crosswalks.

-The content blocker on the network at work. Who says porn decreases productivity? Nonsense.

-The fact there's only two seasons of The Wire left. Boo.

-The phrase "whatevs." It seems to be way too prevalent among people I spend time around. At first it was introduced with a distinct sense of irony, but now I fear it has wormed its way into the group vernacular. Just say "whatever" like the rest of us Valley Girls.

Why You Suck

Today, you suck because you wear these:

Seriously. Are you going seal hunting any time soon? Is that long-planned Arctic expedition finally here? Is this the year you finally win the Iditarod?

No. You own these because "all the girls wear them." Fact: they don't. However, those with low self-esteem and the inability to choose their own footwear do.

Ah, yes. Nothing like Arctic boots and a mini skirt. Speaking of low self-esteem, this is the tragi-comedy of Jamie Lynn Spears in action

After doing some research, I found that Ugg is actually a brand name for a line of footwear, including those vomit-inducing fleece boots. After doing absolutely no research, I determined that Ugg has become a household name, like Kleenex and BubbaGump Shrimp. Why this horseshit remains popular requires more research than the NSF is capable of funding.

As if the boots themselves weren't bad enough (and they were soooo five years ago) some girls tuck their pants into them. I guess they do it because the celebrities are doing it (not a good reason), but they just end up looking like trailer-park hookers. Only without the acid-washed denim.

This picture's fantastic. These three cosmo girls are not only stepping together like they're in a Soviet parade, apparently two of them think they're somewhere above the 10th Parallel. The other one realizes they're actually in Southern California, although that girl is wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. Now, I could continue to bash the chosen styles of these three teenyboppers, but I'd probably end up sounding much gayer than I intended to when I started this piece.

Overall, I give Uggs two snaps and a NO WAY!!!

Open Letter Wednesday

It is with both joy and sadness that I announce a new feature here at Gorgeous; Open Letter Wednesday. The sadness stems from a recent decision that robs Penn State of a gastronomic legend, the chicken Cosmo. Normally, booze, drugs or a delicious cocktail of both are to blame for the loss of college memories. In this case Pierce Chicken Products is said thief:

April 2, 2008

Pierce Chicken Products
c/o Pilgrim's Pride Foodservice
244 Perimeter Center Parkway, NE
Atlanta, GA 30346

To Whom It May Concern:

How does it feel to be personally responsible for the demise of a 26 year-old tradition? I’m speaking, of course, about the inevitable death of the chicken Cosmo at Penn State this Friday. That deliciously crunchy, shaped and formed patty shaped and formed many a student’s life in their four (or more) years on campus.

The Cosmo appeared on campus way back in 1982 at a time when Joe Paterno still wasn’t eligible for Social Security. Since then the Cosmo has endeared itself to students and alumni alike, and that ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, considering the Penn State Alumni Association is the largest in the world. I was lucky enough to live in West Halls as a freshman and the Cosmo was on the lunch and dinner menus every day. In fact, since I usually didn’t wake up until the last hour of lunch, it was more or less my main source of nutrition for two semesters. Elsewhere it was a rare treat, so much so that those jonesing for a fix would make the trek to the Burrowes and Curtin confluence for some natural-looking (your words, PCP) goodness.

I left the dorms after freshman year, but I still had friends that lived there, fortch. Oh how I looked forward to tagging along for a Cosmo with a slice of tomato and ranch dressing on those atypical days when ventured to campus for an extended period. But this isn’t just about me. I had roommates that would schedule classes around the Waring Commons dining hours, friends that would attend a different section of their class and those that would skip altogether just for the flavorful, pre-browned all breast meat cutlet (your words again).

Let me get to the crux of this letter though, as this is more than just me waxing reminiscent. I want to know why you are putting an end to the Cosmo, and with it the happiness and memories of hundreds of thousands of people. You say it is because Penn State is the only institution still buying the patties. This may be true, but let’s break down the numbers. According to Penn State Food Service 274,000 Cosmos are sold each academic year, roughly 650 cases a month. Let’s assume these cases sell for $4.00 each (this is purely an estimate); we’re talking more than $31,000 in Cosmo sales alone and I can’t imagine the cost to produce them is any more than $1.00 a case. That’s a pretty hefty profit margin. I’d be a little more sympathetic if these were your bread and butter, but you are the largest chicken producer in the United States, the second-largest in Mexico and count Kentucky Fried Chicken and Wendy’s as two of your main clients. According to your website, Pierce Chicken invented the first fully-cooked fried chicken and launched the wing category. Methinks you aren’t hurting to turn a buck.

In closing, I ask that you reconsider what appears to be a rash decision based on dollars but not sense. You pledge to give the kind of respect one expects in a partner, but to me you’re more like a lover that got us hooked on smack, only to leave because you don’t like our drug habit. For that, you should be ashamed. I believe I won’t be alone in expressing my discontent and I hope my loyal Cosmo comrades can show you the error of your ways. If not, then good day to you. I said good day!

Buttermilk battered,

Brunswick P. Danforth

Hooray Boners!

If you've watched any television in the past few weeks, you've no doubt encountered Viagra's in-your-face "Viva, Viagra" advertising campaign (you can watch all the spots here). Thanks to an encyclopedic knowledge of the promotion of consumer goods, I was privy the campaign but had not seen an ad until the NCAA tournament. Imagine my surprise when what appeared to be an innocuous recording session turned into an extended jam singing, literally, the praises of the pill that gets you poised for penetration.

I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the minute-long encomium to erections, but a few things stand out in my mind.

1. Why the time stamp?
Really, what functional purpose does placing "Nashville 1:22 a.m." at the front end of the ad serve? Is it to tell the audience that boner jams only happen in the wee hours of the morning? Perhaps to let us know that after a marathon session in the studio deliriousness sets in and the only thing our twangy star can think about is a rock-hard uterus bruiser? Maybe it is to lend credibility to the countrified band since, after all, Nashville is HQ for all things Country.

2. How do they all play and sing along so easily?
Normally a group of dudes this in tune with their throbbing members is called a circle jerk. In this instance though, everyone picks up his (musical) instrument and joins the sing-a-long like Rodgers and freakin' Hammerstein are on set.

3. Why, exactly, are you SINGING ABOUT YOUR WEINER?
I suppose I can suspend belief enough to imagine a scenario where a bunch of guys are sitting around singing about sildenafil citrate, but why the hell would you? Look, you need a pill to make your unit work; you should be taking advantage of that toot sweet, not crooning about it. It's almost 1:30 in the morning dude, get home and start giving it to your wife. As much as she loves your albums, she probably loves your surprisingly non-flaccid man meat more.

HMNIG's Shameless Us Weekly Moment

So a movie is being partially shot in DC. It's called State of Play, and stars Russel Crowe, Rachel McAdams, and Ben Affleck. Now, I think it's clear how I feel about celebrity trash outlets. But friends of mine happen to live next door to the Masonic Temple and Library here in DC where they were filming scenes for the movie. Which is kinda cool.

The Temple, with Brian and Colleen's building on the right

And of course, Colleen, who lives in aforementioned apartment, collects Us Weekly and People magazines like they're cans of beans before a thermonuclear war. She feeds on this shit. Last week she showed me pictures she took of Crowe and McAdams standing outside her apartment. I think she's trying to sell them.

My second brush with celebrity (the first was running into John McCain outside an elevator at a hotel in San Diego) came Friday night, as I was walking to Brian and Colleen's apartment from my own. Jamie and I are walking, me carrying a twelver of Bud, her continuing a story that has already lasted six blocks. We're walking past the temple, because we have to. Nothing's blocked off, but there are trucks and equipment and people everywhere. Jamie's had a few, so she's talking like she's running out of air. I look to my left, and Crowe is walking past about six feet away. Jamie, deep in her story (and a bottle of wine), fails to notice until I ask if she saw him. By this time we're further down the street, and Crowe apparently already got in a black Escalade. Oh well.

So we get up in the apartment, and there's Colleen, glued to the window with a pair of binoculars. I promptly call her creepy, crack a beer, and start playing Wii baseball. An inning and a half later, I hear girlish commotion coming from the window, along with high-pitched shrieks of "Ben!!" I casually inquire what in hell is going on. Brian says something about Affleck being outside. Jamie, down about missing Crowe, desires to make up for it. So what better to do than open the window and yell, "BEN AFFLECK!!! GOOD LUCK WITH THE MOVIE!" To her delight, he acknowledges with a wave. Well, I guess it's hard to ignore something like that.

I look at Brian, and we share an unspoken desire to hide in a closet so as not to be associated with the drooling middleschoolers that our usually well-mannered and sophisticated girlfriends have been reduced to. Shrugging off the encounter, Colleen boldly asserts, "I wish it were Brad Pitt doing this movie." Ah, well. When you're as deep into The Industry as Colleen is, you're able to make such demands.

I admit, the whole experience was kinda cool. But those magazines still make me sick. If were any more shameless, I would post the pictures that Colleen took. But I'm not, so I won't.

Love/Hate List

It's Friday, and that means more things I love and hate:

Love

-When guys get older and fatter, their ties get longer in order to end at the same place on the belly. See illustration.

In this example, y = the height of the tie, from neck to bottom. This is not a measure of distance. The length of the tie is measured by x. In a normal adult male, x/y = 1. In the fatbody pictured on the right, x/y = >1. This is because x has been increased in order for y to remain constant. x is elongated in order to compensate for the curve of the belly, which is quantifiable as the function -(x^2-x)=y.

-Lupe Fiasco's new album, especially single "Superstar"

-Black-eyed peas

-The upcoming live-action GIJoe movie

-Puppies

Hate

-My standing

-My Microsoft Paint skills (top of page, this article)

-The Jonas Brothers. Who the fuck are these hippies, and why are they in Thursday's USA Today and all over the radio?

-Accidentally erasing all the music on my iPod yesterday

-Foreigners