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.