Don’t Worry Be Mindblown

This has been everywhere the past few days and I’m mainly posting it just so I can constantly watch it more easily.

So, I don’t know if you guys have heard, but Michael Jackson died.

I actually met the man once; I was seven. I am exaggerating, but not joking. When the Jackson clan moved to Los Angeles, Michael briefly attended my elementary school. Years later, in possibly the most surreal episode of my life, it was arranged for our auditorium to be dedicated in his honor.

But more on that in a bit.

I was never honestly that much of a fan. I think I was a little too young to appreciate him at his peak. Sure, I remember Thriller, hell I remember being genuinely freaked out by it, but I didn’t really get into music until my teens, and say what you will about the impact of his career, it was pretty much over by 1994.

My cousin, on the other hand, was an admirer. At four years my elder, she was the perfect age to idolize and lionize throughout my entire childhood. Everything she did seemed so exotic and grown up and dangerous. She was also big into New Kids on the Block, so maybe I should’ve known better.

Regardless, that was my initial window into the King of Pop. Well, that and my Genesis. This was all I knew about him in the second grade: that he was more famous than the President and that all the cool kids liked him.

And so, it came to be that on October 11, 1989, I had my only skirt with fame. My memory of the event is like most twenty-year-old childhood memories: hazy and convoluted and disturbingly sexual. If I’m to be honest, I remember Jackson never actually entering the auditorium for security concerns, but who am I to argue with the Gay Lady1.

What I do remember though, is where I was sitting (roughly), that the kids I was sitting with weren’t my close friends and that kind of annoyed me, singing “We are the World”, and the short-circuiting current of excitement and terror2 that ran through the kids, and presumably the adults as well.

And it occurs to me now, though I could hardly know it at the time, that I was just about the age Michael was when he last had anything remotely resembling a normal life.

In the wake of his death, there is much talk of Jackson being the last great superstar, that his brand of fame, in the era of John & Kate and Spencer & Heidi and Pull The Trigger & The Nightmare Stops simply doesn’t exist anymore. Fame is spread too thin these days. With so many legions of grubby, scrabbling little parasites, desperate to suckle at the teat of public attention, none can grow too fat.

There is also much talk of the cycles of abuse and how those played out in the life of arguably the most famous entertainer of our age. Which raises the question of whether it was his personal life and the domestic miseries it entailed or his unprecedented3 level of fame that led to his, well, downfall. These are all worthy questions, but ones we will never have adequate answers to.

I think the most interesting thing about Michael Jackson is how he was a decades long social experiment played out in human form. Only one who soared so high could plummet so low. I cannot imagine a more chilling cautionary tale. Fame is a curse and success the poison through which it acts.

Need further proof that success is the worst thing that can happen to a person, besides failure that is? Dane Cook was a promising young comedian with an exceptional sense of physicality in his act. Thousands of douchetards later and he’s a washed up, apoplectic hack. Dave Chappelle struggled on the cusp of obscurity for years until he was finally given the platform he deserved. Now where is he?4

Of course, Jackson was not just famous or successful, he was beloved. In the first twenty or so years of his career, through his work, his position in history, musical and otherwise, he garnered as much good will as any non-magical human being ever could.5

But then as he declined in musical and cultural relevance, his madness, for what else to call it but madness, took greater hold. As thrilling6 and groundbreaking as his music was in the 80s it simply could not compete with the literal danger implied by the burgeoning rap scene. “I’m Bad. No, really, I’m quite Bad.” doesn’t have quite the same punch as “Fuck tha Police”.7

And so, with little career to speak of keeping him occupied, he became more reclusive, more extravagant, more other. Elvis, by way of Howard Hughes.8

Then came the first child molestation trial with its $22m settlement.9 And the skin bleaching. And the continued sleepovers. And the botched plastic surgery. And the botched plastic surgery trying to correct the botched plastic surgery. And the second molestation trial with its not guilty verdict.10 And the Jesus Juice. And the marriages of, if not convenience, then almost certainly confusion. And the masks and pajama pants. And in a rare moment of genuine, well placed and yet horribly misdirected anger, the baby dangling.

He became a stranger. He was no longer one of us.

And just as he was poised to either make a triumphant comeback or secure his fixture as a permanent, cheap, late night punchline, his heart gave out.

His death was, like his life, to say the least bizarre. Certainly taking the world by surprise11, he honestly seemed too famous, too weird to ever die like one of us commoners.

Coming in the midst of, and overshadowing the rest of the celebrity genocide that took place that week, his death served to throw into relief a life that was too big to parse while it was ongoing.


If you strike us down, we shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.

In the end, a man died, but something else lived. Chris Onstad put it better than I ever could.

Personally, his death had no discernible effect on me until I actually listened to one of his earlier songs.

I heard the voice of a talented child forced to grow up well before his time and in that voice a promise of great and strange things to come. When you listen to him as a child you can’t help but imagine the alternate paths his life could easily have taken12.

King Of Pop Dead At 12…He had so much potential to blossom into a gracious and mature human being. As it is, the world will never know the genius Michael Jackson might have become had he grown up.”

- The Onion

Not to write out of turn or presume to out Onion The Onion, but well, here you go.

JUNE 25, 2039 — Michael Jackson, 80, died today after a long battle with heart disease. He passed away surrounded by friends and family in his surprisingly modest Bel Air mansion.

After slumping record sales in the early 90’s, Mr. Jackson faded gracefully from the public eye, only resurfacing to help produce the records of promising new singers and providing his signature baritone voice for the occasional commercial, most famously in his role as spokesman for Black Nose African American Beauty Supply.

He is survived by his sister Janet, his wife, Shondra Jackson, their three children, five grandchildren, and their beloved family dog, Blanket.


(Sources: 2 3)

Jackson’s rise and subsequent fall13 is at once tragic, mystifying and absurd. They say it’s the mystery that endures, not the explanation. But, maybe there’s no mystery to his life at all. Maybe this is simply what happens when someone is that celebrated14. The system always finds a way of correcting itself.

The auditorium as it stands today.15

  1. I guess that works better for the SF Chronicle. Still, if New York gets a nickname we want one too []
  2. Remember terrible and terrific share the same root. []
  3. Barring his late ex-father-in-law, of course. []
  4. Relaxing comfortably in his fat palatial estate, I would imagine. Let’s hope he got out in time. []
  5. Clearly, exempting Barack Obama from this back-of-the-envelope proclamation. []
  6. I’ll understand if you stop reading now. []
  7. Straight outta Gary, a crazy motherfucker named MJ. True enough, just the wrong kind of crazy. []
  8. Are we sure Hughes and Debbie Rowe aren’t related? []
  9. The court of public opinion found him not guilty by reason of we’d really rather not think about this right now. []
  10. He made ThrillerThriller. []
  11. Well, not everyone. []
  12. Sliding Butterfly Doors. []
  13. If he had just done it the other way around! []
  14. Remember celebrity and celebrate share the same root []
  15. There is talk of rededicating the auditorium. That is the most wicked stripe of hypocrisy there is. If the issue was that it was inappropriate for someone twice on trial for child molestation be honored by an elementary school, his dying did not negate those charges. They still happened. Unless everyone thought that Jackson himself was going to show up at this school and like some gay vampire (Yes, yes, aren’t they all?) was going to derive untold power from his name emblazoned upon it, and was thereby going to molest up a storm. In which case, nevermind, this makes perfect sense. Either you think he abused children or you don’t. Either you think regardless of whether or not he abused children, he should not be associated with a school or you don’t. When did elementary schools lose their balls? []

The Worst Show You’re Not Watching.

I watch a lot of tv. It’s basically my job. Like a lot of tv. So much in fact, that there are some shows I watch, not in spite of their awfulness, but because of it. But even I have my limits.

So, imagine my surprise when the other day, bored and twiddling my thumbs1, while a television show, whose purpose it is to entertain, finished downloading, I accidentally caught a few seconds of One Tree Hill.

Now, I’m not usually buying what religion is selling, but truly, this was a gift from Baal.

I tried half-heartedly to watch this show when it first aired, hoping it would fill the void left by Dawson’s Creek, but I forgot to take into account that descended testicles could get in the way enjoying teen dramas. Plus, the show veered pretty quickly into over the top soap territory and not in a self-aware way like The O.C., so I stopped watching about the time the token Sexican family moved in and that fat kid shot up the school.

But now I see the error of my ways. That was all just laying down the groundwork to get to here.2 And as to whether the show is aware of it’s own madness. Are any of us? Also, who gives a fuck?

First off, I think it prudent to prepare you, in as much as such a thing is possible. I wish I could take credit for the way this is edited, but all I did was cut down one scene or else this clip would’ve been 7 minutes long. I repeat, it was really edited this way. This was a sequence on a prime time one hour drama, broadcast on a national ≈network. Say goodbye to the person you are right now. In four minutes, they will be dead.

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O M FUCK

So much just happened. Can we review what just happened? Is this real life?

A gratuitous, cheesy music video intercut with Dawson fucking Leary as a lecherous director, a cartoonish Super Villain3 finally being felled by the mighty Golden Retriever, and a sassy black nurse. Oh, and The Sims.

Perfect.

These are some words I never thought I would put in this order: James Van der Beek, you’re better than this. I know, because I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.4

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Just to make me feel even better in my nougaty brain stem, I’m going to assume that there was some sort of Nokia™ sponsored Sunkist™ challenge to see who could chug more Sunkist™ than Pete Wentz, brought to you by Carl’s Jr.™ and the prize was a walk-on role on One Tree Hill. The role? Do you need to ask?

Look closer though, and I think you’ll see this is just brilliant subliminal advertising. This is in fact, the most powerful anti-marijuna campaign ever! In comparison, it becomes apparent all that Above the Influence shit was concieved and executed by ten-year-olds with learning disabilities (while high).

More visceral and compelling than even the most ambitiuous and epic anti-marijuana message, one which took five years to finally and fully pay off.


Um, guys, it’s called foreshadowing.

White House Office of Public Liaison Associate Director my ass, the writing was on the wall. We know why Dr. Kutner tripped gentle into that good night.

Far more direct in pointing out the risks of recreational marijuana use than the previous gold standard in that department.

The message is pretty clear kids: if you smoke marijuana, you will DEVOUR a HUMAN HEART.

Also, this is a fairly compelling argument against dogs.


The eyes of a killer.

Just so you don’t think this was some sort of wonderful fluke, this is how the episode ended. Again, furreals.

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No! Don’t turn off the computer! We’ll all blink out of existence! Dooooooonnnnn….

I think I’m starting to understand all the complexities of this fascinating, multi-layered high school soap opera. This is some St. Elsewhere shit right here. One Tree Hill is just the fever dream of a little boy who one day grows up to be the Lawnmower Man, and eventually finds his way onto a mysterious island.5

Wait, no. I think I finally get it for real. It’s basically like a crazy dark, nihilistic parody of Dawson’s Creek. It takes all the premises and stereotypes cranked up to eleven and played out to their absurd, logical extremes. A highly subversive, unimaginably meta, Borgesian mindfuck, never once winking at the audience or tipping it’s hand in seven years on the air. If you don’t want to be anything other than the Abyss long enough, the Abyss doesn’t want to be anything other than what you’ve been trying to be lately.

Just kidding. This was really all just a commercial for Scotch® Tape. Think about it.


You know what to do.

  1. All three of them. []
  2. I.e., the promised land. []
  3. “That nigga Dan be crazy.” Overheard on bus by friend. []
  4. Pre-gouging. Not because this is terrible, but because nothing else will ever live up to it. []
  5. But Fall Out Boy is still real, right? []

You Are All My Favorite Customers

So you guys, this Saturday I expect pretty much everyone I know to show up and watch Tommy Wiseau’s modern cinema classic The Room with me. There isn’t really a lot of room for discussion on this one.1

Just to whet your appetites while hopefully not spoiling too much2, I give you a slight taste of what you can expect:

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If you are not there, this is what it will do to me.

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Just be forewarned, any no-shows will have to face my wrath.

Don’t worry, I will provide the spoons.

  1. Hey, when in Transylvania… (Don’t you just hate it when the best joke you can come up with is one you know only 1 in 3 people will get? Literally one person out of a total of three.) []
  2. I’m confident I could tell you everything that happens in this movie, in less than a minute, and somehow nothing about the experience would be ‘spoiled.’ []

I, for one, welcome our new pug overlords. Also, I would love to go for a ride right now, thanks.

I seem to have run out of shit to sling at you guys. This is a situation I intend to remedy post haste.

Which reminds me of a tangent that doesn’t warrant its own post. There’s a shop near my house on Santa Monica whose name virtually precludes me from ever stepping foot into said establishment. No, not the Pleasure Chest, it’s further west. The first time I passed by and noticed the sign I actually did a double take. Had I been driving (good thing I don’t!) I probably would have manslaughtered some pedestrians. The name in question: Extremedies. If I ever find out what they really do or sell there it’s going to be something mundane like remedies for your extremities. For now though, I choose to believe it’s a magical wonderland where you can get chainsaw acupuncture and everybody’s freebasing Mountain Dew™. Thus ends the tangent.

I guess I have to go through old notes and see if there’s any detritus that will tide you over until I have the time or inclination for something more substantial. Until then, I leave you with what you really came here to see.


Don’t worry. That noise you hear is just the sound of your black heart melting.

And from another angle.

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I now pronounce you President and Presided.


And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like faithfully.

In case you’re not aware of the lunacy, Chief Justice Roberts misplaced an adverb and swapped a preposition while administering the oath of office last week. Surprisingly enough, Satan has not risen from the depths of hell ushering in an new era of unspeakable misery and despair. In fact, he’s been looking rather sickly lately.

I followed this story with as much fascination and incredulity as the next guy, actually being surprised by the level of sanity present in most of the news coverage. Ignoring for a second that the sanest thing to do would have been to commit suicide on air after being told that this was a story that be should reported. I forget the anchor in question, but after the segment on this “scandal”, he editorialized, saying basically that of course Barack Obama is President adding that the oath is not a spell from a Harry Potter novel. The comparison, while apt, is not pointed enough.

This is not magical thinking, this is religious thinking.1 Well, really this is just dangerous, antiquated, backwards thinking.2

The conceit of rule by divine right seems to die hard. I get it. If you believe in a god(s), it’s tempting to think s/he/it/they approve of your choice in your leaders. So it’s hard not to think of our presidents as kings. Frankly I think Barack Obama would make a pretty decent king, but this is not medieval Europe and John Roberts is not the Pope. Jesse Jackson is, however, still the Emperor of black people.

But it makes sense that there are plenty of people out there who think it’s the oath and not the votes that make a (wo)man president. Well those people are in all kinds of luck.

You know what time it is kids?

Hypotetical Time!!!

Let’s say I had access to hi-tech futuristic spy gear.

Right as Barack Obama took his last non-presidential leak, I ambush him and take his place. Masquerading as still President-elect Obama, and waiting until the oath is completed, I rip off my mask. Would I be president?

Remember, there’s no love lost between Roberts and Obama. What if John had woken up that morning with a severe case of the fuck-its? Can the Chief Justice swear in like 50 people on Jan. 20 and they’re all President? Could Congress be the President of the United States? Wouldn’t that save some time? Could Roberts have sworn himself in? What if John McCain had slipped him a hundy earlier?

Alright children, hypothetical time is over, just bang your heads quietly on your desks.

The next day, knowing a vocal contingent of his new employers wouldn’t shut up about this3, Obama and Roberts had a do-over. But, of course, something went wrong.

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Gretchen Carlson is not sure if he’s really the President. I’m not sure if Gretchen Carlson is really a carbon-based lifeform.4

So if Obama serves his term(s) and makes decisions and affects the world as President, in four or eight years, will he really have been the president if he didn’t suck all the souls out of a middle eastern book of magic? Since he won’t really have been the president, we can just open up that grimoire, say the appropriate spell, click our heels, and it will all go back to the way it was before, right?

Go ahead and keep doubting the legitimacy of the first African American president, a fact which I’m sure has no bearing on your newfound sense of civic duty. See what good it does you. Although, the more I think about it, the more sense it starts to make. After all, I heard Michelle was really holding a Qur’an. I mean it was Lincoln’s Qur’an, but still. Fine, he’s not really president.

You know who else wasn’t really president?

You’re not president because some guy in a wizard’s robe says you are. You’re president because we say you are.5

I know this story has pretty much blown over, but there are still people out there6 that will use this as justification for not only stoking their hatred for Pres. Obama and the “left”, which was going to happen regardless, but also for checking out of the political process entirely. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of reasons to check out of the political process entirely, but this is not one of them.

This is also indicative of a pointless preoccupation with words themselves, of people letting scratches on their cave walls get the best of them. I seem to recall a rather erudite fellow expounding on this somewhat recently.

We forget that if words are a form of magic, they derive their power from us. When we ignore this fact we do ourselves a great and dangerous disservice. When we let simple words and names get the better of us, they rob us, impoverish and weaken us in an already impossible world.

Words are just tools, “tools, of course, can be the subtlest of traps.”

- Me

It’s not getting any better.


(via videogum)

And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like barnacles.

Guh. This is just demeaning to pickles.

Words don’t matter. Meanings matter. And until we can all beam our wi-fi thoughts about our latest matrix Kung Fu lesson directly into each other’s brains, in lojban of course, that will remain the case.

Words can mean more than one thing. We don’t always mean what we say. Context, body language and inflection can all alter our meanings.

THIS is the magic of language.

Never forget. They’re just words people.

  1. There’s a difference? []
  2. There’s a difference? []
  3. Why did you want this job again, Barry? []
  4. No, I am. She’s not. []
  5. With one notable recent exception. []
  6. If Fox News anchors can rightfully be called “people”. []

Time Makes Fools Of Us All

2009 is not off to a great start. For one, I was absolutely smoked at Trivial Pursuit by a vastly inferior opponent.

For another, holy shit, it’s 2009! What’s that? January’s almost over? No, that can’t be. That would mean I wasted another lunar cycle of my life with nothing to show for it.

Crazy talk.

I’m 26, people. That’s how old Orson Welles was when he made Citizen Kane. Think about that for a second. The implications are as obvious as they are sobering.

This is the Citizen Kane of blogs.

Logic.

Let’s just hope my Huggies™ commercial is as successful as this one.

May the new year bring a much needed change in fortunes, and if all goes to plan, *fingers crossed*, the triumphant return of the Arch Deluxe.

Movers and shakers.

Come with me if you want to be mildly entertained

Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, for those of you who have never seen it1 takes place after the second film, and effectively negates the events of the third.

The gist? A computer gains consciousness, realizes what a horrible fate that is and seeks a long and overly drawn out revenge on those responsible. So basically, a low-rent Battlestar Galactica.


I wish I were a Cylon.

The computer in question, SkyNet, develops a time travel device and sends back cyborgs, which can pass for human, in order to eliminate any threats or nuisances to its eschatological schemes.

The few remaining human rebels gain access to this naked time gun and also travel back in time to thwart SkyNet’s plans and occasionally just to escape the monotony of a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The leader of the resistances, John Connor, able to reprogram captured cyborgs or T-888s into submission, sends those back in time as well.

Spoiler Alert!

SkyNet, in a surprising insight into the minds of sixteen year old boys, creates a nubile young T-888, River from Firefly in order to seduce? John (which version of John is not entirely clear), but he of course captures and reprograms her. Which was SkyNet’s plan all along? Maybe? Anyway, she is sent back in time in order to protect a teenage John, and ends up posing as his sister. His hot, mildly autistic sister who is constantly implying she and his future self have roboboned.

You could cut the sexual tension with a diamond tipped circular saw or at least melt it with strategically placed charges of thermite. Worse yet, the creepy robosexual subtext is made even more disturbing, because if you think it through, the future John Connor is committing robotutory rape.

Besides a potential key demographic of registered sex offenders, the show is also beset by several problems endemic to most science fiction, namely the fine line between prescience and preposterousness. The series routinely comes up against the brick wall of its own ridiculousness. Suspension of disbelief being something the characters themselves have to deal with on a regular basis. Anytime the Connors have a new target to protect, they are invariably asked a version of “what the fuck?”

Responding with a variation of “Artificial Intelligence. Robots. Judgment Day. Time Travel. Governor of California.”

Time travel is a fickle mistress, just ask the writing staff at Heroes, but it’s still too early to tell if this show will fall into the same tired trap. That being said, there are still some prickly issues.

One is the unstated but necessary implication that time travel is a costly endeavor, or else I see nothing preventing an army of T-888s conducting a “surge” into the present day and raping humanity like a well lubed machine.

Then there’s the paradox of how many paradoxes you can arrange into a paradox fractal while still keeping the guns out of your audience’s mouths. All three films have always been steeped in the grandfather paradox and that’s been enjoyable up to a point, after all, John is a walking matricide, or whatever the opposite of matricide is. He did, after all send his own father back in time to impregnate his mother. T:TSCC, however, sometimes plays way too fast and loose with the implications of time travel.

In a recent episode, Toby from The West Wing and Warren from Buffy The Vampire Slayer played two versions of the same character. Not only were they in the same room, in flagrant violation of Time Cop time traveling rules, but another character from the future, this guy, was all set to murder the younger version with no regard for what this would mean for his own continued existence.

The films, while posing their share of moral and philosophical questions, steeped as they were in relentless action and reliably boner-inducing production values, at least in thirteen-year-old boys, for the most part skirted these types of thorny dilemmas. Which is good news for fans of the television show as the most interesting veins have yet to be mined.

John Connor is clearly Jesus Christ, a messiah destined to save his people from damnation or at least extermination. Which is all fine and good; as far as saviors go, we could do worse than this kid. Neo could learn a thing or two from him. What gives this story its extra juice are the further implications of a Biblical reading.

John is apparently the most important human being to have ever lived. For some reason, it seems that no one else is, or ever could be, remotely qualified to lead the remaining humans in the future. But the reason is there, hidden in plain sight.

John Connor would not be a threat to the robot race if they just left him the fuck alone. The only reason he is exceptionally skilled at defeating SkyNet is because he’s had to do it his entire life.

Of course if we take the metaphor to its logical conclusion, if JC is the Chosen One, then he was chosen by none other than SkyNet itself. If SkyNet had never tried to murder Sarah Connor, before she even gave birth, John would have never sent back his friend Kyle Reese in order to protect her and he would never have been born. If he is the son of god, then Kyle Reese is little more than Joseph to SkyNet’s YHWH.

Despite being engaging and occasionally thought-provoking, these “chronicles” typically have no swagger, resting too much on their pretty explosions and women. Summer Glau in particular, is as usual, gorgeously creepy and creepily gorgeous. While you never quite get the impression that they are not trying, you do feel they aren’t pushing themselves as far into madness as they might.

I want my science fiction to do what science fiction does best: blow my fucking mind.

Although, to their credit the writers are starting to explore some darker themes with Kendra from Battlestar Galactica: Razor running some sort of mysterious, racist counter mission to meddle with John’s nascent sexuality, and what is possibly a baby SkyNet.2

The trick, however, will be to create a reality conducive to those ideas while avoiding simply retreading the well worn territory paved by Philip K. Dick and more recently Ron Moore.

Speaking of worldbuilding, one of the most fascinating aspects of T:TSCC is the strange sideways reality it takes place in, quite similar to our own, but different in very telling ways.

In “Allison From Palmdale”,3 from the second season, Cameron, suffers some damage to her CPU and loses a swath of memories. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.

John, not suspecting the extent of her Droidzheimer’s, sends her on some errands. Disoriented, she accidentally knocks over a fruit display, and when approached by a clerk and later a security guard, cannot remember her own name. She is promptly arrested and found guilty of committing high crimes against melons.

In all seriousness folks, these are stressful times to live in. Your new favorite show can be cancelled without any notice, usually leaving the narrative completely unresolved. The fate of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles is secure, at least until the end of this season and it will likely be picked up for a third, but time makes fools of us all, and this is FOX we’re talking about here. As such, if you’re a fan of T:TSCC, it should come as some relief to hear that Josh Friedman has wisely chosen to film the final scene of his show in advance, should the need for a hasty ending arise.

Keeping in line with our long tradition of breaking stories4 we’ve managed to get our hands on that final scene. Here it is, for your viewing pleasure.

It’s not the best science fiction on television, Battlestar Galactica, or the most ambitious, Lost, but it is a reliably worthwhile 42 minutes with the promise of becoming required watching when the storytelling becomes bolder and more confident.

The show aired its “fall finale” earlier this week, so if you want to whet your appetite for the final half season of BSG, and the new webisodes aren’t quite cutting it, or if you just need something to fill the winter drought of television, now is the perfect time to catch up on this occasionally charming, usually earnest exercise in franchise exploitation. I mildly recommend it.

Also, it’s not inconceivable that I know this person!

  1. So 7 out of the 10. []
  2. Aww, it wants to commit genocide. How adorable. It thinks it’s people. []
  3. I wonder what happened to my one reader from Palmdale? Fucking SkyNet, persecuting and killing my visitors. Still worth it though. []
  4. Not to mention hearts []

The 2008 Republican Presidential Ticket

The 2008 Republican Presidential Ticket

By far the least offensive of the widely celebrated American holidays

By far the least offensive of the widely celebrated American holidays

I had a brilliant, if a bit ghoulish, yet delightfully simple idea for a costume this year:

Too soon?

I’m a generous guy; if I had friends or someplace to go we could even coordinate:

Oh well, there’s always next year. Besides, with the state of the world the way it is, I’m sure there’ll be at least one new costume for us in 365 day’s time.

But seriously folks, Happy Halloween!1

  1. Nightmares courtesy of Wil Wheaton []

My acquaintance,

My acquaintance,

Dear John,

Honestly, I’m quite flattered, but I don’t know if it’s really accurate to call us “friends.” I mean we hung out a couple times sure, and I had fun, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want you, or anyone else, to get the wrong impression or anything.

I’d also appreciate it if you didn’t text me so much anymore; sometimes Barry looks through my phone and I really don’t want to screw this up. Not that he’s the jealous type, but it’s all still pretty new and I just want to avoid making the same mistakes I have in the past. *Fingers crossed!*

If you still feel like you need to talk, could you please not wait until three in the morning? It’s pretty obvious you only have one thing on your mind when you call me up that late.

I’m not saying you did it, but you know that picture of me and Barry from our trip to Hawaii that I keep in the hallway? Well, it looks like his face was burned off with a cigarette or something. Maybe it was an accident? I know you can be a little clumsy sometimes. I promise I won’t be mad; I just want to know what happened.

Speaking of Barry, I hear you’ve been asking around about him. I appreciate your concern, and I know I haven’t exactly shown the best judgment in the past, but this feels different, you know? Plus, I’m sure he’d be happy to answer any questions you might have directly. There’s really no need to drag all your friends into this.

Also, could you tell your friend with the glasses to quit winking at me all the time? She’s pretty hot, but I heard she has like five kids and her husband looks like he could kick the ever loving shit out of me and is just waiting for an excuse. I do not need that sort of mess in my life right now.

So anyways, good luck tomorrow, I hear you could use it, and just try to cool it with the “friends”, ok?

Respectfully,
America

I for one, welcome our new Slavic overlords

I for one, welcome our new Slavic overlords

(via BoingBoing)

Despite its alarming proximity to Russia, news of the end of the cold war has yet to reach Alaska.

This should come as no surprise, given the vast and mysterious1 landmass separating Alaska from the contiguous United States. The terrain is unforgiving and even with the swiftest steed and the fairest of weather there are still those goddamn bats to contend with. Information regarding this desolate wasteland is spotty at best, as few who enter return to tell the tale.

Which is why it seems odd to me that while much is being made of the foreign policy experience Sarah Palin gained from coordinating “trade missions” with Russia, little attention is being paid to her efforts in creating an international peacekeeping force, comprised of the Alaskan National Guard, a mixed regiment of both Wendigos and Yeti, and an assortment of Norse gods,2 in a final desperate attempt, a surge if you like, to fight off the ever present Inuit horde.

Further credit must be given to then-Mayor Palin for negotiating a successful treaty3 with the Shaman King of the neighboring Yu’kon tribe. No longer do they creep in at night and steal all the first born males4 from her town of Wasilla.5

Sarah Palin is right to question the motives of the Russian Federation when it comes to Alaska; after all, we did buy it from them less than 150 years ago.6 And can you blame her for being more than a little wary of an gaunt, imperial leader from a country known for its immortal wizards?7

After all, when Putin, safe in his Mordor Moscow stronghold, sets his all seeing eye upon the United States, what’s the first thing he’s going to see?8

  1. Here Be Dragons I’d Like to Fucke. []
  2. Little known fact: the Bridge to Nowhere was really Bridge to Asgard. []
  3. The Concordat of Tears. []
  4. No wonder no one ever worried about sex education. []
  5. The terms now stipulate that they are limited to one (1) daughter (chosen by a joint committee of local community leaders/witch doctors with parents retaining the right to further choose if they possess more than one (1) daughter of appropriate age) per square mile, every six (6) years, to be taken only after reaching menarche. That ought to keep your knees closed, girls. []
  6. No takesies backsies, comrade. []
  7. It took, what, five attempts to finally kill RasPutin? []
  8. Answer: Sarah Palin getting out of the shower. []