I Spy a Giant Hunk of Space Junk

Is anyone else excited that the U.S. Government plans to shoot a giant, poisonous super-secret spy satellite out of the sky some time in the next few weeks? That just sounds cool, right?

If we're going to have an ignorant, misguided, willful, arrogant bastard in the White House, the least he can do is make something cool happen. Re-creating the plot from "Armageddon" only with a spy satellite instead of an asteroid (perhaps even cooler) and without Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis, is, well, it's still awesome.

Apparently, the classified plot was hatched through super-secret meetings with super-secret top scientists. Two Navy destroyers are currently positioned at secret locations in the Pacific, north of the equator, awaiting orders. And there are also super-secret emergency response teams (okay, I don't know if they're actually secret) standing by as we speak, in case the plan doesn't work. FEMA has issued guidelines about responding to the emergency, including, helpfully, that one should avoid giving mouth-to-mouth to anyone who has inhaled hydrazine or beryllium. Fair enough. In my case, the government need not worry, because there is very little chance that I am going to purposely lock lips with a complete stranger, regardless of whether they've been poisoned by rocket fuel.

In any event, stay tuned, because this operation may be a huge success, or a monumental failure, and either way it's going to be fun to watch.

I Like Mixed Nuts and I Cannot Lie

On Friday evening, Darren and I took a trip to Sterling, in hopes of ending my hunt for a really, really cheap bedroom chair. In addition to its no doubt many fine qualities, Sterling is host to a Big Lots, and despite Jared's assessment that these stores are fairly umm...gross, I decided we would take our chances.

While we didn't find a chair, we did find loads of interesting items. Probably the most interesting area was the food section. It included things like canned sardines in a variety of sauces--mustard, hot, vomit. Okay, not that last one, but close enough. There was also strange candy, no-name tomato sauce, and Northern Virginia's most extensive selection of potted meat products.

A long time ago, my roommate and I occasionally shopped at a place called Boston Barn, which featured bargain foods of all types. A sort of "scratch and dent" place, but for things you actually ingest. I stopped shopping there the day we were checking out and a woman approached the cashier to explain that she wanted to return her box of cereal, on account of the things moving inside it. So now, while I do like finding things on sale--10 for $10 Diet Pepsi, for example, feels a little like Christmas morning--I'm not a big fan of discount food. I did find one item, however, from which I could not walk away, and that item was Rap Snacks.

Sure, maybe you've had a Rap Snack before. Maybe for the fly circles in which you run, Rap Snacks are old, and tasty, news. But I suspect 34-year-old Caucasian females from the suburbs are decidedly outside of Rap Snacks' target demographic. Nonetheless, as soon as I saw them, I knew I had to buy them. Rap Snacks, which have apparently been around since 1994, feature superstars of the rap world, and each variety includes an inspiring tag line. The variety available at Big Lots was Stat Quo's "Sour Cream & Extra Cheddar." Stat Quo instructs snackers to "Pursue Your College Degree." (So we'll overlook the myriad grammatical errors on the back, including the one which refers to Stat Quo as a former graduate of U of F.)

I planned to leave the bag unopened, as one should with any fine collectible but while I was out running errands on Saturday Darren succumbed to the siren song of the Rap Snack. He reports that Stat Quo's flavor is a delight. Since 80 cents a bag seems like a small price to pay for a piece of history, we'll probably want to restock.

I am currently on the lookout for other Rap Snacks, including Pastor Troy's "Hot Cheezie Popcorn," which reminds youngsters to: "Stop playin' and get serious!" and YoungBloodZ' "Southern Crunk Barbecue" advising snackers to "Get Crunk!" (I have no idea what that means.) With no disrespect intended, I may skip Chopper Young City's "Pork Skins & Cracklin'" despite its inspiring maxim, "Seize Every Opportunity."

As an homage, Jared and I are currently working on a series of Snack Raps, of which this post's title is merely a sneak peek. Expect big things. Maybe even a spot on our own Rap Snack.

I Know It When I See It

Recently I learned that an Abercrombie & Fitch manager in Virginia Beach was arrested for refusing to remove corporate advertising which some customers felt was obscene.
That got me thinking.

Things that Are Obscene at Abercrombie & Fitch:

The Hearing Damage- Thanks to music played so loud that humans over the age of 18 fall to the ground, writhing and shrieking in pain until they are able to cover their ears and crawl back outside.

The Price- As in paying $69.50 for this-


The Shorts- If you're wearing bottoms, you should not need a Brazilian, however, I suspect in these you might-


The Child Exploitation- Because apparently if you call the children "models" instead of "underpaid sales associates" they don't mind spending five to eight hours a day folding polos for minimum wage.

Things at Abercrombie & Fitch on which the Virginia Beach Police and I Part Ways, Obscenity-Wise:

Sure, it's definitely selling ass, or rather, using ass to sell jeans (which I guess you have to be 21 to find compelling, jeans purchase-wise). But if we banned every piece of advertising that used ass to sell something non-ass-related in this country, there'd be a lot less advertising. Ummm...hold on. I think I might actually be on to something...

Of course, now that I'm starting to come around to their way of thinking, the police go and drop the charges. We'll just have to agree to disagree, I suppose.

Whatever

I'll be honest--I don't understand football. I just don't. And it's not that I'm intellectually incapable of comprehending the rules of the game. I see the meatheads who play it (and, let's be fair, the ones who watch it) and I'm pretty sure if they can figure it out, I can. The difference is that I simply can't be bothered. I know some of the terms. I know there are downs and they have to do with yards or something and you only get so many of them before it's the other team's turn. I know what a field goal is, but not when you're allowed to kick one. And I know what a touchdown is. But I'm getting bored just thinking about it.

For the most part, I don't like people whose necks are as wide as their heads. I know it's wrong to pre-judge people based on a physical characteristic--particularly one over which they have no control. It's not as if it's a poorly chosen haircut, or those giant holes some people decide to punch in their ears, and then fill with what appear to be rubber stoppers. But in my experience, the whole neck-to-head ratio thing is generally a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff, if you will.

Additionally, neck-to-head ratio not withstanding, football fans are not typically my people. They're not the kind to laugh at my jokes (which is a sign of something seriously wrong with you, you know, in my opinion), they enjoy things like light beer, or kielbasa, and many are given to excessive displays of exuberance, at volume levels that are only appropriate if you're calling for help from the bottom of a well.

All that having been said, I am from New England, and if a New England team makes it into the final round of any sports competition, I'll pay at least half-assed attention. In this case my reward was watching the Patriots flounder around until Eeyore Manning, oops, I mean Eli Manning, managed to lead, sort of, his team to victory. The lesson in all of this? I was right all along (surprise, surprise): football sucks.

Like the Corners of My Mind

Today, I read that Lindsey Lohan is shopping around her memoirs. And then I squeezed my eyes closed real tight and whispered "Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God."

Doubters will say "But Lindsey's so young. What wisdom could she possibly have to offer?" Whatever. Lindsey's young, sure, but she's lived, man. And you? You've probably never even thrown up in a limo. Or at least not more than once. And I suspect you can probably recall many of the individuals with whom you have had sexual relations over the years. Lindsey often can't remember who she's having sexual relations with while she's having them. And it's those kinds of experiences from which life lessons are born, folks.

Excerpts below. Come, learn with me!

November 1, 1997

God, Dennis Quaid is such a douche. It's like he doesn't even care that I play TWO people in this movie. I'm in every scene, twice. That's like Lindsey Lohan Squared. Does he think it's easy? Whatever. He is so washed up anyway. I told my agent I wasn't even doing this stupid movie unless we could get somebody important, like Robert DeNiro, or Will Smith, to play my dad. But my mom says I have to do it because they put the house up for dad's bail and she's worried he's going to leave. I told my personal assistant that I don't care if he leaves but she said I really do and then I threw the phone at her.

Last night, after we got done shooting my scene, I had the limo driver take me and my friends Ashley and Mary Kate to this bar. I can't remember the name. My mom went too, which is so not cool. But whatever, she just sits at the bar and tries to get free drinks. While we were doing rails in the bathroom this skanky bitch came in and she was all 'Oh my God, Lindsey Lohan!' But I was all 'Get the f#%^ out of here, whore.' Mary Kate says her name is Paris. Which is so retarded, because Paris is, like, a country in England or something. My tutor is going to be so psyched that I remembered that.

Love,
Lindsey

May 16, 2007
God, rehab gets lamer every time. What the hell is there to do in Utah, for f*#&'s sake? Sleep with a Mennonite or whatever? No thanks. Yesterday they tried to serve us water with lunch, but I was all 'Uh, do I look like a goddamned refugee? Who do I have to blow to get some Cristal around here? I will seriously burn this place down.' My therapist says I need to be accountable or something, and that I'm acting out because I'm angry at my mom. But I said I have like an accountant and a personal assistant and two maids, and they can do my accounting or whatever.

Last night Riley and I snuck out and went downtown to break into a drugstore because he thinks I gave him gonorrhea, so he wanted to steal some Bactine or something for it. Which is so ridiculous, because if I had gonorrhea I think my assistant would have told me. And if I really do have it, that skank Wilmer Valderamma gave it to me, for sure. Riley's totally annoying, but I am so not going 90 days without humping anything. He said I'm a firecracker in the sack, but I thought he was going to say firecrotch, and I totally hate that name, so I hit him with a lamp. He actually looks kind of cute when he's passed out.

Serenity now,
Lindsey

Dr. Spock's Got Nothin' on Britney

OMG! Paris Hilton and me are sooo on the same page. Today she said she thinks Britney Spears is "a great mother and a great girl..." Me too! Totally! I mean, she's no Joan Crawford or even Lynne Spears, but she definitely seems like a pretty good mom. People get so uptight when you drive with your infant on your lap once in a while, or if your kid (accidentally, y'all!) falls out of his high chair and fractures his skull a teeny bit. And I think all of us have tripped over our bell bottoms while walking in our platforms. And if I had a baby, I'd probably have been carrying mine when it happened too. Geez. Let she who is without platforms cast the first stone, you know?

As for the picture, well, the jury's still out on second-hand smoke, and it was obviously taken outdoors. Not to mention the cigarette's a solid 18 inches from the kid's face. You can't baby them all the time, or they'll never grow up.

And finally, uh, I think Paris Hilton knows what she's talking about. She isn't just pretty and talented and extremely large of hoof. She's smart and insightful too. If she says Britney Spears is a good mother, I don't think any of us are in a position to say otherwise.

Never Mind the Bollocks

I think each of us remembers the first time, sitting in traffic, when we glimpsed a set of giant testicles hanging from the pick-up truck in front of us. And while we all may have reacted slightly differently, the one thing that probably occurred to all of us is "God, male genitalia is soooooo hilariously unpleasant looking." Which is correct. There's just nothing all that aesthetically pleasing about what amounts to two golf balls swinging in a baggy, hairy sock. Gagging yet?

And that's why I can get behind Virginia Delegate Lionel Spruill, who has proposed a bill to ban the display of human genitalia replicas on motor vehicles in the state. Usually, I'm not the kind of person who tells other people what to do with their genitalia--real or fake. But when you choose to swing them from your bumper, forcing me to look a them, even briefly, I think I want the state to intervene.

Regardless of the proposed legislation, one question remains--what type of person actually wants a big ball sack hanging from their vehicle? Vulgar? Check. Kinda sad? 10-4. Misguidedly enamored of their own goofy genitals? You know it! Plus maybe tobacco-chewing, or most likely to get in a bar fight.

And yes, I know the Virginia legislature probably has more important things to do, but let's face it, we all know they're not going to. So why not do this in the meantime? Plus, at the end of the day, any piece of legislation that spawns headlines like "Possible Testicle Ban In Virginia" can't be all bad, right?