Tuesday, November 21, 2006

It's Hooters without the formal dress code.

Introducing The Hawaiian Tropic Hot Zone chain of restaurants!

BRB with thoughts, etc.

Dearest Kramer...

...see what happens when you write your own lines.

P.S. Fuck you Michael Richards, you stole your hair from Buckwheat. So this is like the white guy who has black hair calling the black kid who has black hair, black or a teapot or some shit.

Top 3 Playstation 3 Launch Titles

1. Regret: The Morning After
2. Something good for Playstation 2
3. PS1 Greatest Hits

Monday, November 20, 2006


Transportation has always fascinated children. I remember dreaming of flying cars and bullet trains as a youngster. Maybe it's a guy thing. Something akin to Popular Mechanics.

Recently I've noticed the weirdest thing. While kids may never ever get the hover boards (real or fake? you tell me) from Back to the Future 3, what they do have is far stranger.

Sneakers with built-in wheels, and no helmet required!

My wife hates these things with a passion. You'll be at the local supermarket when, all of a sudden, a turbo mop-head will appear, doing what can only be described as a 'retard wheelie'.

Amazingly, never once have I seen any of these rollerbabies fall on their snot noses.

The thing is, the roller sneakers themselves are piss ugly. They utilize the orthopedic appeal of basic skate shoes, because, lord knows, these rollerbabies should at least feel like they're Tony Hawk.

Roll out boys and girls. Roll, fucking, out.

Side note: Children's Rollerderby with these frankenstein shoes would kick ass. Let them wear helmets to be safe, but just think about it. Nickelodeon, get on this shit.

Overheard this weekend.

Me: Have you seen Borat…the movie?

Floridian: The African one…Babel? No, but I’m dying too.

Me: (Speechless)


(Barnes & Noble)

Yenta 1: Did you see that Dancing with the Stars?

Yenta 2: Uh-huh.

Yenta 1: How did you like that black fellow?

Yenta 2: He was good, but why did they let that same woman win? She won last year.


Saturday, November 18, 2006

Have a tip, spare a tip?

A tip jar certainly has its place -- the local carwash, grocery bagger boy area, etc. Employees at such establisments provide service and earn very little in wages. Giving them a tip feels appropriate, especially if they really do go the extra mile.

All other business, however, should think twice before hitting up customers for gratuity. It's tacky and inevitably alienates the people that keep them profitable. A customer is there for what thay need, not what management or employees need. Should the markup on products and services not cover rent, wages, etc., tough shit. Raise prices. Cut back somewhere else. Just don't pass your burden onto me.

Put out a tip jar and you may as well hang a sign outside your door that reads, "WE UNDERPAY EMPLOYEES." Making matters worse, oftentimes tip jars give employees bizarre notions. They begin to feel as though there is a choice in serving customers. Fill the jar and expect normal service, maybe with a smile. Refuse, and you're in for it. You'll get sass, attitude and the warm welcome generally reserved for Nazis, pedophiles and OJ Simpson.

Starbucks, of all places, allows their 'baristas' to put out a tip jar. Listen java boy or girl, if I have to call you a 'barista' and order a fucking medium in a romance language, then you don't need a tip. What you need is unionization.

Starbucks has taken a mediocre cup of joe, pulled the wool over caffeinated eyes, and built an empire. Kudos, but enough's enough.

Where is all the money going? Hey management, nix the free internet and give the art student/glorified server a goddamn raise. Because I'm not paying for their next lip piercing. That's your job.

These 'baristas' don't even fix you your cup of coffee. We have to do that ourselves and you don't see us walking around with a tip jar. Maybe we should take half of whatever's in their tip jar and call it even.

Keep in mind, Starbucks coffee is not even that good. I go to the local diner or greasy spoon and the waiter or waitress (how refreshing) fixes it for me. I even get free refills. Guess what? I leave a great tip.

Starbucks people, let me introduce you to the McDonalds people. Maybe you've heard of them. Arguably, the most well-known american service industry business. The prices at McDonalds are competitive. Forget the quality of the food (remember, Starbucks is nothing special either) for a second. You never see a tip jar at any of their franchises. And I'm pretty sure Mickey D's pays its employees as little as legally possible. Still, no tip jar.

McDonalds employees are required to wear laughable uniforms, while 'baristas' get to wear a baseball cap and an otherwise inoffensive getup. Still, no tip jar. Quite the opposite actually. At counters throughout most McDonalds, you'll find installations for collecting donations to Ronald McDonald House, a charity for children. Guess what? No one pressures me, and I drop a buck or two into the thing.

Don't get me wrong. McDonalds does hundreds of things wrong, but its charity over tip jar policy is commendable. Next time Starbucks is spending thousands to print up cups with 'How I see it' essays by celebrities and artists, it should keep in mind How I see it. And How its employees see it. The view is not very flattering.


P.S. McDonalds plans to revamp all of its franchises worldwide by 2008 or so. The designers have opted for a Starbucks-like lounge deco. Translation: We are an experience. Stay longer and pay more, while our employees earn less. I suggest you start saving in order to tip well.

Almost forgot. What the fuck is Cold Stone Creamery smoking? At this joint, the ice cream servers are elevated to hibachi chef status. They use palettes to slap your scoops of ice cream and toppings together. WOW! Amazing, right? It's so unbelievable that Cold Stone's Creamers believe they are entitled to a tip as well. Unlike the 'barista' divas of Starbucks, these kids will literally sing for your tip. Still doesn't justify their tip jar, but it's a step in the right direction.

Friday, November 17, 2006

Most Common PS3 Owner Complaints

-Blu-Ray discs not actually blue.



-iNsTrUcTiOnS WrItTeN wEiRd.

-No built-in friends.

-Nauseating new console smell.

-ROCKR game chair incompatibility.

-Only one number greater than PS2.

-Resale value on eBay only $30,000.

-Color does not match mom’s basement.

-Failure to warp users into a land of clear skin, attractive mates and unlimited sex.

-Difficult to code home-brew games for.

-Graphics not yet making blood run from eyes.

-Neighborhood bully refuses to leave.

-Inputs limited to digital accessories only.

The Game Show of Tomorrow: Porn!

Vanna, we’ve come a long way. Currently on-air in prime time are 4 or 5 game shows featuring sexy women. And horribly unfunny men.

I will discuss two of these.

Deal or No Deal involves suitcases of varying amounts of money. These suitcases are shiny and new. More importantly, they are held by women dressed in revealing evening wear.

These Deal girls are directed by uber-creepy, germphobic Howie Mandel 2.0. He tells them to open their case once contestants pick one. He manages to know all 50 or so of the leggy women on a first name basis.

(Side note: What happened to Howie Mandel 1.0? The family friendly, curly-haired ball of nervous energy? The guy who had a cartoon version of himself called Lil Howie or some shit, and starred in the greatest man/dog movie of all time, Walk Like a Man? I miss that Howie. This new guy is all perverted, which is fine. But it seems like he is ‘acting’ perverted, which is weird.)

This is probably how the meetings between producers and aspiring model/actress’ managers went down:

NBC: Short skirts, lots of cleavage.

MODEL REP: Fine, but my client is more than a piece of meat.

NBC: We’ll have Howie say their first names, which everyone at home will remember.

MODEL REP: Did you hear that…Cindy? I mean Tracy.

I’m not sure why people watch this show. Howie 2.0 is not funny. The conversations with the ‘banker’ are silly, and bringing contestants’ friends and family up to help guide decisions is fucking retarded. I will admit the constant DEAL OR NO DEAL questioning is a bit entertaining. I just wish Howie would have more fun with it.

Due to the runaway success of Deal or No Deal, a rival network decided to create a similar game show. Instead of Howie, this show has the SHAT. And they’re advertising the shit out of it. Apparently the Shat is a dance that the host performs when excited.

And the host himself is THE SHAT, William Shatner y'see, so it's 'funny.' This guy’s made a mint out of his cornball schtick. And he’s still going strong.

I don’t show the name of this show. I do know that instead of 50 sexy women, it features 12 or so. These women even get their names in lights for most of the show. If you ever catch this SHAT, watch the beginning. While Howie 2.0 says, “Ladies…” or some shit, the SHAT announces his women and all hell breaks loose. You’re transported to a Vegas cathouse. I SHAT you not. Each woman starts doing their best stripper dance on prime-time, complete with stripper pole. And THE SHAT ogles and goes ape-SHAT. It’s like a really, really bad Vegas show.

Overall, the SHAT show is more fun.

Networks are running out of hosts for these weird game shows. I think we’ll see Carrottop or Emo Phillips alongside completely nude trans-gender host(esses).


Thursday, November 16, 2006

What of K-Fed's entourage?

I don't watch HBO's Entourage for many reasons, but it's popular with the kids. MTV is even launching their own reality rip-off of it later this year.

Why bother though? K-Fed's downward spiral and dealings with his own pathetic entourage would be far more riveting.

Will his hypeman not believe the hype? Will backup dancers disregard K-Fed's choreography, opting to krunk it up and clown their own frontman? Will security be on suicide alert?

The drama is endless, the black humor abundant and the price dirt cheap.

Look out Carter clan, K-Fed's more fucked than you.


Synonyms for Fergalicious.





Warning: Wuss Post Fast Approacheth.

It was unseasonably mild this evening in metropolis, with strong wind gusts and buckets of water falling from the skies. Bittersweet, really.

On my way home through the rain, I spied a group of sixty to seventy-year old women. They had just come in from under the downpour. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then I heard them.

A chain reaction of the most lived-in laughs I've ever heard. I couldn't help but smile. These were women who must have known each other for small lifetimes. The joy they expressed in every gesture and word exchanged was beautiful. It was the real life Golden Girls, and it was a show I could watch forever.

I hope I grow old and remain happy with life like those women. Even in the rain.

What it means to be first to own a PS3.

-You will live forever. Alone.

-Arrangements were made to feed your feret.

-You have low-hanging boobs, of male and/or female variety.

-You are last to own a life.

-You are not a fanboy. You are TEH fanboy!

-Waiting in line is about as social as you get.

-You can tell the difference between a Cell processor and your cellulite.

-You’re TiVo’ing Battlestar Galactica.

-You are a non-conformist immune to mass marketing. Pshaw.

-Your friends and family will be getting home-made gifts this holiday season.

-You will say it's awesome, even if the box blows up on the ride home.

-You are Lizard King to Losers everywhere.

-Bragging rights throughout Mordor, Narnia and the moons of Endor.

Bread lines? Meh! We got PS3 lines.

What does it say about our culture when grown men willingly wait in huge lines to shell out close to a grand for a video game machine? I’ll tell you what it says: “GAME OVER.”

Honestly, there should be a therapist waiting for these people. The escapist culture in this country will be the end of us.

Things like Second Life, the Sims and MMORPG’s pose a serious threat to human-to-human interaction.

I say less focus on graphical interface, and more on face-to-face interaction.

Even the companies that pump these games out fail their employees on a social level. Designers and programmers work countless hours, and weekends, away from family and friends in order to make a vessel that keeps thousands of over-sized children coddled in dark corners, escaping from responsibility and life.

I swear, if my kid grows up and asks for a PS7, I think I may have failed him or her. Especially considering I may not be able to afford one.


Fuck you, A.C. Slater!

A black baller danced your ass off the stage.

And no amount of pouting or Easter Bloc-cuntiness from your partner can change it.


Rich kids graduating makes my Wednesday night!

Caught some of the Laguna Beach finale last night. It's the pseudo-reality show that follows a group of spoiled high-schoolers thoughout their tumultuous year of living dangerously.

This season alone, we had a fledgling rock band fronted by a dead ringer for Seth Green on crack, a brunette who refused to wear lip gloss no matter how cracked her mouth, a mixed girl with a rack whose size was only matched by the square footage of her forehead, and a collection of the most oversized sunglasses to ever be sported over ProActive users' faces.

In a word, it was awesome. Of course I take away from it things the average viewer takes for granted. I enjoy how not one adult exists. I also quite fancy how no one needs to work through school ever. All in all, as the most Unreality Show Ever Created (TM), it's great.

I must say though, the cast was on the ugly side this year. If we're going fantasy land, let's not half step it.


Hi. I'm the new James Bond. Hello...Hello?

New James Bond film comes out tomorrow.

He is blonde. He kills with his bare hands.

And guess what? No one cares.

Take the charisma of a dead catfish, the euro-trash looks of a bad boxer, and you've pretty much got the new Bond.

But I have to give credit where credit is due. The producers really went out on a limb in casting another white guy. WITH BLONDE HAIR!!!! Ker-azy!


My father’s white trainers.

Last weekend, my dad decided to wear his new white sneakers. This was misguided for many reasons. For one, we were going to a muddy football field. For two, he is not a nurse.

Inevitably, my dad and his weeboks were the talk of the field. They were the orthopedic equivalent of the fat hooligans who paint their bellies and cheer their teams in sub-arctic temperatures. Alas, the whiteys had the opposite effect.

While my nephew and his team did win the game, there came a moment when he was tackled mid-field, blinded by the shimmery size 8’s.

I can’t hate my dad for wearing white Jane Fonda-cizers, but I can hate the motherfucker who sold them to him. I hope to god, it was a woman in a low-cut blouse. Otherwise, my dad may have gay feet.

Come to think of it, I can trace my father's shoewear de-volution over the years. It hit mid-50-ish, when he started wearing comfort shoes. Rockports, Eccos, etc. Then he graduated to more AARP-favorites, the Florsheims, the fucking brand with the air in the shoe. And it's culminated in the virginal sneakers he sported last week.

Then again, he may have also watched some rap videos and thought, "Hey, they leave the tags on their ballcaps...I know, let me wear the whitest sneakers in history."

I need to get him to rock them shits with fat laces.

In his defense, if there is a footwear heaven, pop's has got two feet firmly planted in the fucker.


Love is many things. This is not one of them.

I am not French. Nor am I double-jointed. No surprise then that the joys of Cirque du Soeliol have always been lost on me. And never more so than last night, when I caught the latest French gypsy troupe’s performance on Leno.

Hippyishly titled Cirque du Soleil: Love, the new show is a tribute to the music of the Beatles. Apparently, the Beatles were le huge in France or something.

What followed was the weirdest dance performance in the history of weird French gypsy dance performances. A vintage Volkswagon Beetle was rolled out, and what seemed like 35 extras from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo stormed onto the stage. Sure, they were dressed in appropriate 60’s garb, but there was zero effort to emulate the dances of the 60s.

I seriously doubt anyone has ever headspun to Lennon and company. Why? Because it is fucking retarded. If the troupe’s intent was to create the sensation of a bad head trip, then hats off to you, Pierre Whoever.

You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a bunch of street dancers doing their worst hippy impression while making choreographed love to a motherfucking punch buggy. They had people flipping off the poor bug, buffing its sides with their heads, etc.

I was praying the recent VW Safe Happens campaign would kick in, and a wood paneled station wagon would take everyone of these hippy posers out.

Which brings up another issue…Isn’t playing the role of a hippy completely anti-hippy?