This is a picture of me saying, "Up Yours, York!"

I’ve been at student at York now for four years and am starting to get a little tired of the scene. Being an English major (yes, laugh it up, make your jokes about how I’ll amount to an educated shit head) the marks I receive are subjective and dependant upon how much I kiss ass. I don’t kiss ass, I don’t go and see my TA’s during their office hours to give them that sense of completion that they so badly yearn for by allowing them to tweak my essay topics. I’m confident in my essay writing capabilities, you’re better to come and stomp me physically than to rip on one of my essays. Writing is what I’m about. Yah hurrrrd?

.....Four years. What have I learned? Truthfully? A lot. I’ve learned that in ancient Rome it was A-O-K for an older man to have a younger male student fillet him in exchange for philosophical knowledge, I’ve learned words like “recapitulate” (the long form of “recap”), “inextricable” (a word you never want to hear from a proctologist), and “juxtaposition” (A word so over used that I’ve begun to hate any of its conjugated forms and want to smack the shit out of people for saying it as it is quickly becoming cliché.), I’ve learned about Islam. But of the things that I learned at University, the thing that I am chewing on at the moment is the knowledge that the University is a business like any other business.

.....Just like any other business, York U rapes and cuts corners in the name of the almighty buck. Back in first year they used to mail out grades and lecture schedule, but to “cut down on the use of paper” lecture schedules and grades can now be retrieved online. How convenient. I’d like to meet the genius who said, “Why don’t we NOT send them their marks or provide lecture schedules! It’d make us a nice profit that we could then pocket and buy dildos to stick up each others asses! They don’t need their marks! They’re a tech-savvy bunch.” Contrary to their “saving paper” agenda they do not hesitate to send out, monthly no less, BILLS FOR TUITION.

.....A couple months ago I was riding in the Pathfinder on my way to class when I heard on the radio that the new Argos Stadium will be built on my campus. I swore like a sailor. Why? I was pissed because my school is a whore. From what I remember of the spokesman from York who was blabbering on the radio about the new stadium, he said something like, “With the Rexall center (Tennis stadium), the York U Lions, The Ice Rink, A soccer facility planned for 2008, and now the addition of the new Toronto Argos stadium, this place will be one of the greatest sports complex in the GTA!” I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I saw myself stuck in traffic trying to get to class, fighting with pre-drinking Argo fans for parking while they tail-gate party, and coming out to see all kinds of garbage and shit all over the parking lot when I leave for home. It’s a fucking UNIVERSITY CAMPUS, a place for education. You don’t see U of T welcoming the Raptors into their campus. Why is York such a whore?

.....That doesn’t affect me directly though. Not yet anyway. What really tips my tank is parking. I am at York three days out of the week. I have the option of buying a parking pass for the outer unreserved lots for 1,500 dollars which would cover the whole year; 1,500 dollars plus tax for a parking spot on the outer-fucking-limits of the campus where by the time you get to your class you’ve walked 15 minutes and your balls have retreated to the warmth of your anus. The other option is to do the pay-as-you-park parking. How’s that fair? 9 dollars a day for outer unreserved, a maximum of, I believe, 14 dollars a day for anything closer. That’s IF you can get into the parking structures. It basically comes out to the same as paying for a parking pass. No matter how you park the equation = you paying out the ass.

.....The picture above is where I, and a few other people, park. It’s across from York on Steeles. I’ve only seen some get tickets, but I still haven’t. Hopefully I can still get up there in the New Year. You're welcome to come park, just don’t be an asshole and park where people get up over the curb.

Picaresque Hero? Nah, you're just an asshole.

For a couple days now my dad has been bitching about an article he read in the Filipino news publication Likha. The article in question was written by Kevin Richardson (billed as “Canada Kev”)and titled “Trip to the Philippines: Part II” It is supposed to come off as a picaresque story of a Canadian on vacation in the Philippines. For those of you that don’t know what “Picaresque” means, it’s a type of story wherein the protagonist is a rouge or rascal. The story revolves around the adventures of that protagonist and these adventures are often meant to be humorous, and through the story the corrupted nature of a society the character exists in is exposed by our roguish hero of low social degree. More or less that’s what a picaresque story is, put that in your bag of ten dollar words and let’s move on.

…..Canada Kev’s adventure in the Philippine Islands is hardly the tale of a “hero” or “rascal” living by his wits. It’s the story of an elitist, polygamist-wishing, condescending cock-sucker who finds the Filipino way of life, the Filipino people, and their stereo-typed tendencies to be economical amusing and quaint. Amusing and quaint the way the village idiot is.

…..In the first paragraph of this article Richardson relates to the reader the story of his arrival. While a Philippine Customs Agent asks Richardson's wife for a tip in Tagalog, of which he is oblivious to because he never took the time to learn the language of the woman he married, Richardson follows his wife like an imbecile. Later, when a safe distance from the Customs agent, he asks his wife what the Customs agent had asked her. Here, showing his complete lack of testicular fortitude, Richardson writes from the safety of thousands of miles away:

“It’s a good thing that that Custom’s Agent did not ask me for a tip as I would have responded like any good Canadian should and would have said: Sure, I will give you a tip, don’t eat any yellow snow.”

Not only does Richardson show he’s a pussy by exhibiting his passive aggressive nature, he goes on to show that he’s an elitist as well:

“Since the fellow probably has never seen any snow in his lifetime the joke would no doubt been lost on him.”

Asshole.

…..In the second paragraph Richardson wastes no time in showing his superiority to his “boss”, I assume he means his wife, in a short but adequately obnoxious parenthetical mini-lecture on the semantics of the word “downtown”:

“I was impressed with the downtown (well I am now being told by the boss that the financial area is not downtown but of course all financial areas are downtown but what do I know?)”

.....Firmly establishing his position as an anal asshole, Richardson moves on to utilizing the cultural practices of some who follow Islam as a means of fulfillment for his sexual fantasy to partake in a ménage à cinq. Richardson writes:

“After a couple of hours there however, I had a very sore neck from looking left to right while watching all the pretty girls who invariably had beautiful long raven hair. I started thinking that perhaps a conversion to the Muslim faith might be an excellent idea due to the fact that Muslims are allowed four wives.”

Checking “Sexual Deviant” and “Islamic Fence-Sitter” off his list, Richardson moves on to the issue of women in the sentence that immediately follows. Richardson writes:

“However, I then started to think about all the increased nagging and added chores that wives inflict upon their poor husband’s and I dropped the idea, at least until I can solve the nagging question.”

…..By now you may be thinking, he’s attempting to be facetious, why are you being such an asshole? Maybe, and quite possibly he is. But a lot of truth is said in jest. And part of the truth here is that Richardson wrote what he thought and believed it enough to submit it for consideration of publication. I’m not about to begin a diatribe defending what I’m writing because, frankly, I don’t believe in pre-emptive jousting. It’s like masturbating. You want some o’ this? Write me. Moving on.

…..In true Sherlock Holmesesque fashion, and unbelievably still in the second paragraph, Richardson comes to the revelation that *gasp* the Philippines is full of Filipinos! He writes:

“But what really jumped out at me was that everyone was Filipino and there was very little with very little racial and cultural variety, unlike what one would see in Toronto whereby there are dozens of different races and cultures.”

I won’t even comment on that. That’s just stupid.

…..Paragraph three. Following Richardson, we are now in a Chinese food restaurant with his wife, and two sister-in-laws. This is where Richardson really starts rolling. First he slams San Miguel beer, “It is here that I had my first San Miguel beer although I wish that it had also been my last. No such luck.” Then, even worse, he starts to bag on his sisters-in-law about how they worry over what, in his opinion, is a small sum of money. He writes:

“…I learned that the Dy sisters (my sister in-laws) are not to be trifled with when it comes to money as they meticulously checked the bill, and after finding a few mistakes which were immediately corrected by the restaurant, we departed. Woe to the waiter or waitress that seeks to overcharge the Dy sisters…”

.....Of course he doesn't say they're cheap in so many words, but when you arrive at the end of the article he says something that drives that point home. (by the end of this you'll know what i mean.) At the end of the paragraph, Richardson must’ve realized he was being a prick, but instead of erasing the paragraph and starting over he attaches this short addendum, “And it had nothing to do with money as they kept refusing mine but rather it was a point of principle and respect.” So first he says, “…not to be trifled with when it comes to money…” then he says, “it had nothing to do with money.”

…..Paragraph four is where Canada Kev’s elitism comes into the equation. In this paragraph Richardson relates his delight by the fact that while his wife’s shopping bags are thoroughly searched upon entering various stores, his Murakami remains shouldered. You’re laughing, good. You know I’m joking. But I jest with a purpose, that being to show that Richardson’s elitism is so severe that is causes him to be blind. Of course they wouldn’t check him; he didn’t have a handbag, purse, fanny-pack, back-pack or a shoulder bag to check. If he truly thinks it was because he was North American, because he was White, he’s not only elitist but diluted as well.

…..Skipping paragraph five and six, as they are merely a retelling of the flight from Manila to the resort Island of Boracay and provide a dull recollection of Richardson lounging half-drunkenly returning the hellos of the resort staff, we reach paragraph seven. As I ate my breakfast of sausages and eggs while reading this article, Richardson proceeded to unzip his fly, expose his stubby cock and piss all over my plate. Here, in the last few paragraphs, we get what serves as the final picture Canada Kev wishes to paint of the Philippines for us.

…..A short synopsis is required. Essentially, Richardson rents a 250cc Honda motorcycle and takes it through the seven kilometers of Boracay. In his travels he meets, “Stray dogs, goats, and chickens [that] wander around aimlessly and [of which] he almost hit one or two of them.” No longer in the resort area of Boracay Island, Richardson is now in the part which he deems “the back of town”, the people “were not as engaging as those in the hotel or tourist area.” Well what the fuck do you expect? You expect them to be like those fuckers in Makati? You want them to lay down palms as you roar up and down their quiet streets with your loud bike and most likely equally loud Hawaiian shirt? Fuck you!

…..In the eighth and final paragraph Richardson takes a pot-shot the youth of the island. He writes:

“…having seen the same wet market and mangy dogs over and over again, a group of young kids around sixteen years of age tried to stop me… I was not about to take any chances. So I used a trick I learned many years ago and I proceeded to pretend that I was going to stop and I even nodded at them. They relaxed, sensing I was going to stop until I stomped on the gear changer and roared away leaving them dumbfounded and shouting: Hey! Stop! ”

They probably weren’t going to rob you, fuck0. They were probably going to kick your ass for going up and down the fucking street “at least a half of a dozen times” like a fucking asshole-tourist who thinks the street is his own personal fucking drag strip.

.....Not wanting to let the reader forget he’s an elitist asshole, Richardson ends his second instalment of his adventures in the Philippines with this:

“…I returned the motorcycle although the vendor would not give me a credit for the time not used. Sally (his wife) kept teasing about that but I would just laugh and say, big deal so I lost five Canadian dollars. Whoopee do!”

Picaresque hero? Nah, you’re just an asshole.

Christmas Shoes.

I complain about a lot of things, not because I'm a bitter, cynical cock, but because there is just too much out there that needs bitching about and no one takes the time to do it. Through bitching, I believe, the world might just be a better place to raise little Billy and little Shaneekwa. Exposing that which warrants bitching might prevent something similar from coming about again. So bitch people, bitch.
.....It being Christmas and all, myself being a masochist, I like to have CHFI FM 98.1 blasting all day and night. Their programmers, 2 weeks before Christmas, gather together every single Christmas song known to mankind and proceed to play them over and over. Within 24 hours the list is exhausted, but still the monotonous images of white Chirstmases and Roseascha suffering reindeer pollute the air waves.
.....I'm down with all the old Christmas songs like Bobby Helm's 1957 hit "Jingle Bell Rock" and Burl Ives' 1965 Christmas-time booty-shaker "Holly Jolly Christmas", even "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" is tolerable, but lately there's been a startling movement in the Christmas music industry to make you feel guilty as fuck for being better off than Joe-Welfare. (Did you just call me elitist? fuck you.)
.....I think, don't quote me on it because I'm just talking out of my ass here, it all started with John Lennon's 1971 recording "Happy Christmas (War is Over)" While not being overtly guilt-inducing there are some choice lines like, "So this is Christmas, and what have you done?" and "And so this is Christmas, I hope you have fun" wherein I detect some sarcasm. This song, from my limited historical frame of reference, was the steam-roller that flattened tunes like "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" and "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" to pave the way for songs like the 1984 British collaborative "Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All".
.....Let's look at that song. Doing some research on it I quickly learned a few interesting, albeit useless, facts about the group Band-Aid. It was 1984, and during the time that "Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All" was being recorded there was a terrible (more than usual?) famine happening in Africa. Two Brits didn't like the idea of people starving and dying in Africa while their fellow Britons were getting fat on shit like figgy pudding. So, these two blokes (actually a man and a woman) wrote a song and ask their friends to recorded. Their friend's being the likes of Phil Collins, Jody Watley, Bono, Boy George and Sting... Anyway they wrote/recorded the tune and BANG-O, it's a Christmas classic.
.....I have such a fucking problem with this song simply because of this lyric: "And there won't be snow in Africa this Christmastime/The greatest gift they'll get this year is life(Oooh)/Where nothing ever grows/No rain or rivers flow/Do they know it's Christmastime at all?" Do they know it's Christmastime at all? Are you fucking kidding me? In 2003 the total population of Africa was estimated to be 851,556,000 and of those 850,000,000+ only 394,640,000 were estimated to be practicing Catholicism. Do they know it's Christmastime at all? Probably, but with more than half of the population non-Catholic they probably don't give a shit. (An Aside: I know they were trying to be cute by naming their collaborative group "Band-Aid" as in, Bands that Aid, but taking out your irony detector you will easily see that since this group only produced this one song to aid those starving in Africa in 1984 "Band Aid" takes on another meaning. Namely, a Band-aid solution to a wide spread epidemic. Good job, you British assholes, good job.)
.....Moving on.
.....When Jim Carey played the Grinch in the Seuss silverscreen adaptation in 2000 it made tons of cash. One of the gems I take away with me from that movie, other than the realization that I still love Jim Carey even though he over-acts like a motherfucker, is the "Where Are You Christmas?" tune. This song actually has two versions recorded; one by the little girl who played Cindy Lou Who, Taylor Momsen, and one by professional Barbie, uhh, singer, Faith Hill. As I loved this song in 2000 because I was a depressive fuck and no one seemed to notice me wallowing in my own shit, now, in 2004, I want to strangle the who out of Cindy Lou. Why? Not because it's a poorly written or ineptly performed song, but because it poured gasoline on the fire that would yield the worst offender of them all. Christmas Shoes.
.....Bob Carlisle, the same fool who gave us "Butterfly Kisses", brings us another shit-stain-in-stereo. Have you heard this song? Have you heard Christmas Shoes? No? Read these lyrics:

It was almost Christmas time
There I stood in another line
Try to buy that last give or two
I'm really in Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me
Was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing around like little boys do
And in his hands he had
A pair of shoes

And his clothes were worn and old
He was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn't believe what I heard him say

Chorus:
Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want it to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

They counted pennies for what seems like years
And cashier says son there's not enough here
He searches is pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
And he said Momma made Christmas good in our house
Most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how I gotta buy her these Christmas shoes

So I lend the money down
I just had to help him out
And I'll never forget
The look on his face
When he said Momma's gonna look so great

Chorus

I know I won't regret some help as he thanked me and ran out
I know that God sent that little boy to remind me
What Christmas is all about

Chorus

I want it to look good
If Momma meets Jesus tonight

.....Done? Let's get started then.
.....Firstly, look at the first verse. "There I stood in another line...I'm really in the Christmas mood." What kind of sadistic fuck likes lines and shopping on Christmas?
.....Secondly, second verse, the narrator sees a little boy standing in line in front of him. "And his clothes were worn and old/He was dirty from head to toe." The image is way too much. Not only is he poor, he's dirty "from head to toe". Come on now, that's laying it on a bit thick, Bob.
.....Thridly, the chorus, or the "kicker" as I'd like to call it. "It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size/Could you hurry Sir?/Daddy says there's not much time/You see she's been sick for quite a while." I have a mother who is, more times than not, sick during the Christmas holidays. I have spent not only Christmas in a hospital, but also my birthday there because my mother has had another bout of asthma. I know for a fucking FACT that the last thing that I think of when my mom is ill, bed-ridden, and hospitalized is to buy her something. Let alone Christmas shoes. If there isn't "much time" why the fuck is this kid buying shoes? So that momma looks pretty for Jesus? Newflash, Bob. Jesus is "our savior" not "our pimp". And I think the Big J-Man was more a sandals kinda guy anyway.
.....Fourthly, the first verse after the chorus. "They counted pennies for what seems like years/And cashier says son there's not enough here/He searches is pockets franticly/And he turned and he looked at me/And he said Momma made Christmas good in our house/Most years she just did without/Tell me Sir What am I gonna do?" Now, Bob is assuming that we the listeners are putting ourselves in the place of his fictitious narrator. What would we do if we were in that position, we're made to ask ourselves. We would buy the fucking shoes, which is exactly what happens in the next verse.
.....Still, the little speeches that this kid makes that are supposed to play like soliliquies or asides are just too dripping, maybe I wouldn't buy the shoes. Maybe I'd think twice. Maybe this kid is part of a "Christmas Shoes" syndicate. Who knows. Also, pennies, Bob? PENNIES?! This couldn't be more mellow-dramatic.
.....Fifthly, and I assure you finally, the short verse after the second time the chorus is repeated. "I know I won't regret some help as he thanked me and ran out/I know that God sent that little boy to remind me What Christmas is all about" Yes, I know the over-laying messages is "to help those who can't help themselves", but the underlying message can't be missed. Jesus has a shoe fetish and what a dying mother wants more than having their child by their side is to have them out in the mall procuring a pair of shoes. This fromage of a song is a carelessly thrown together appeal to emotion. Fuck you, Bob. If I ever meet you I promise I'll tell you your song blows.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE~!@!

I'll give you incentive.

If you know me, you know I love me some comic books. I started reading them when I was 6, continued with them until I was 13. I read them because I liked the stories, the heroes with their extraordinary abilities, and the constant struggle between good and evil. Also, Todd McFarlane's rendition of Spider-Man. However, I stopped reading comics after the art started to get really good and the stories became generic, unimaginative, and uninspired. You can stare at scandalously dressed women with huge tits for only so long before your interest is lost.
.....Now I'm back at my old haunts, Ron's Comic Room in Scarborough, Planet X in Richmond Hill, 4th Dimension in Newmarket, and just recently Sci-fi World near York U collecting various titles and spending at least 50 dollars a month. While the storytelling is catching up to the quality of the art work, there are still some bullshit practices going on.
.....The cock-suckers at Marvel have resurrected a way to suck money out of comic book vendors, which actually caused the plummet in readership during the late 90's. This gouge at the capital of comic book store owners forces propriators to reciprocate by sticking their metaphoric cocks in the collective asses of the consumers. How may you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Variant Covers.
.....What's a variant cover, you ask? Well, a variant cover is actually quite simple. See, just as any other comic book has a cover, so does a variant. But, a comic book that has variant covers means that there are comics of the same issue published that differ from each other only in the art on the, yup you guessed it, front cover. Nothing inside is different, in fact, their content is identical.
.....Back in my days of comic book collecting variants were no more rare than the regular covers, in fact, they were sold along side the regular covers and it was a choice of personal preference which you'd buy. Although, it's true that one might be worth more than another, the comics were usually published in equal amounts. Here's an example of a variant cover.

.....That's all well and good, two different covers, two choices. At 3.25 + taxes a pop, you aren't breaking the bank if simply gotta have em' both. Two issues with different covers is not the problem, this is:

..

..

Count em'. 5 different covers for the same issue. Well, at least they all come together to make one big picture. Look what those cacks at Marvel did with Spider-man #1 in the 90's:

..

..

....
(From left to right: Green var., Black var., Green var. bagged, Black var. bagged, Gold var., Platinum var.)

.....If you look at the first four you might say they're identical. Actually, if you look at all of them you'd be right in saying they're all pretty much the same shit. The first two, however, were BAGGED. Pretty greedy, huh? Six issues, same cover, different colours. If memory serves me correctly, the "platinum variant" went for about 100 bux.
.....What really pisses in my cornflakes is that instead of using what used to sell comic books, namely good stories that held the readers in suspense and awe, Marvel, D.C. and the other comic book monkeys are opting to produce multiple covers to sell their stories. Dicks.
.....Back to good ol' 2004. Has much changed since the 90's? Yes and No. Variants are still around, but there's something called an Ultra Variant. These ultra variants are so fucking rare that you pretty much have to be the comic shop guys' personal cock-jockey to get them at all, let alone at cover price. That isn't the fault of the comic shop people, it's Marvel. Getting these variants doesn't depend on luck, it depends on how many copies the comic book store orders. The ratio is something like order 500 regular covers and you'll get 1 variant. Marvel calls them "Incentive Issues", I call them bullshit.
.....In an interview with Marvel's Gui Karyo, President of Publishing, the interviewer asked him,

"As I understand it, you're using two variant covers on the first printings of Astonishing X-Men #1 as incentives for orders on other books. Is this a one-time thing, or a technique that Marvel is going to incorporate into its marketing mix?"

to which Gui replied,

"We're honestly not sure at this point. We believe strongly in experimentation. We are still evaluating both of the variant cover strategies we are employing with Astonishing X-Men #1. Check in again in a few months."
.....The way Marvel wants to experiment with its fan base reminds me of a girl I dated in high school, she wanted to experiment by way of putting her fingers up my ass.
.....Most recently in the adventure of variant covers, though, is the new title "The New Avengers" brought about by the Avengers Disassembled story arc. As I was looking through a stack of "The New Avengers" in the Wizard of Centerpoint to see if I could catch a glimpse of the variant cover, the load of a human being at the counter took a break from his hard job sitting on his ass talking on the phone. Before he noticed me he was yammering on about how he was amazed that all the variants had almost sold out already. I guess fucko smelled a sale when saw me flipping through the New Avengers, he called over to me, resting the receiver on his shoulder.
....."Can I help you?"
....."I'm just looking, thanks."
....."If you're looking for the variants, they're up here."
.....So I walked over and looked in the glass case. 40.99. I looked at him, he smiled. I wanted to slap him.
....."Thanks." I said, and left.

.....50 dollars for THIS:

But, that's how it is, I guess. No matter what you love you have to take the good with the bad, like a battered wife I'll always come back to comic books.

France's No. 1 Biscuit Brand

I was in Dominion today and came across these tastey looking chocolate wafer bars.

"Pimp-slap hunger like the bitch it is."

I'm so happy little Suzy still plays with dolls...

.....Christmas is quickly approaching. In a mere 6 days of this posting girls all over the world between the ages of 5 and presumably 12 will be, by 10 a.m., dressing and undressing their new dolls straight from the North Pole. While many mothers and fathers will be happy with the fact that their little girls are still playing with dolls and have not (yet) become maniacal cock-hungry prosti-tots, the sad, sad reality is that these naive parents have no idea what these dolls ingrain in the impressionable minds of their daughters.
.....As if Barbie wasn't enough to fuck with the self-esteems and body images of little girls world wide, doll maker MGA Entertainment jumps into the ring with their line of BRATZ dolls. Now I'm not a feminist, and I won't be bagging on the doll industry for creating unattainable standards of beauty. That, my friends, is for the lesbians to do. And nor am I a misogynistic Neanderthal that thinks women should look like barbie because they are, in fact, objects.
.....But yes, Barbie is freaky. It all starts when you go past the Barbie aisle in Toys 'R' Us. Side-swiped by the neonishly-pastel hot pink that is the barbie trademark, you try to shield your eyes from the glare. Aside from that, if Barbie were scaled to human size, would be 7'2" with a 40" bust, a 22" waist and 36" hips. That's hot.
.....These new dolls, however, are much worse. While plastic surgery would probably be the only way to go about achieving Barbie's unattainable measurements, BRATZ, on the other hand, boast consumer driven slogans such as "The Girls With A Passion For Fashion!", That-Is-So-Yesterday expressions, highly over done make up, and as the doll line name implies, Bratty Attitudes. All of which are more easily attainable than Barbie's gargantuan measurements.
.....Only bad can come of this. I foresee more molestation allegations for R. Kelly. Poor, Robert.
.....Teaching little girls that it's "cool" to be a bitch is not beneficial to them. What would be would be to teach them when being a bitch is of use. But these companies really don't give two squirts of piss about you, your children, or how it might damage them. What they care about is that you collect these dolls, buy their fashion accessories, and whatever else the marketing team can concoct. One thing about Barbie though, at least some of the dolls were given professions, like "Nurse" barbie, "Teacher" barbie, "Firefighter" barbie, and "Desert Strom Commando" Barbie. (The last two I made up, I don't know jack shit about barbie except that their hair doesn't grow back.)
.....Wanting to find the whoriest doll in the BRATZ lineup, I went to their website. While the page is loading its flash-based interface the preloader animation reads "Please wait... it takes time to look this good."
.....Uh-huh.
.....After waiting patiently for the page to load I was then confronted with a few choices, each of which lead me to another loading screen, "Forget it" I said, and went to the internet surfer's favourite tool: Google. As always, Google yielded many images of the dolls in question, of which I've come to this final conclusion:

ALL THE DOLLS LOOK EQUALLY WHOREY

.....For all my bitching about Barbie being freakishly disproportionate in the previous section, I really never had a problem with Barbie. She's a fine product of which can easily explained to a young girl that Barbie is not real, that Barbie is an idealized version of what a woman can, not should, be. It might also be of interest to note that Barbie was originally created and sold to Men as a sex-fetish type toy. Put that in your easy-bake oven and smoke it. (thanks, Phil)
.....The BRATZ line of dolls, however, I would like to insert anally into each member of the development team at MGA Entertainment without the aid of ky or astro-glide. The fusion of "girl power" with the consumeristic values that the dolls tote are appalling. The over use of make-up on the dolls is repulsive and will probably result in many young girls being mislead in the cultivation of their aesthetic beauty. The skimpy outfits that are packaged with, and can also be bought separately are overly provocative for a toy for young girls.
.....So, if you want to turn little Isabella into a cock-smoking, cake-facing, lip-glossing, belt-as-a-mini-skirt, bra-stuffing, eleven-teen year old make sure Santa leaves some of these little bitches under the tree on the 25th.

.....Addendum (20-12-2004): Don't get me started on the male counter part of the BRATZ, the BRATZ BOYZ. If I see any boys playing with these metrosexual dolls I'm going to report their parents to the nearest social worker.

Doppleganger?

It has been brought to my attention that this fucker apparently looks like me.

What do you think?

"don't make me pimp-slap you, armor-boy."

Addiction to posting is immanent

For those of you out there that might know a shady bitch or two, here's a little diddy I wrote in place of a journal entry for my class Lyric Poetry: Sappho's Greece to Donne's England. Enjoy.

Love Rationed

How could you lie
.....So smoothly then,
With eyes in mine
.....And body spent?
Our covenant-
Come-throw-away,
Years gone. Heart frayed.

This stranger stalks
.....Me in my sleep;
His crooked cock,
.....His cloven feet.
I never beat
Or laid a hand.
But still. This Man.

We, with Passion
.....Took solemn vows.
Love now rationed;
.....Whore’s lust espoused.
For you allowed
This stranger in
Our House. Your Skin.

You can’t deny
.....The strong cologne,
Or hide the sighs
.....When we’re alone.
Into our home
This man invades,
And I, Love, fade.

Boiled Nuts and Roasted Ham.

.....The first time that I experienced heated seats was earlier this year in my friend Marc's brand-spanking new BMW 328i, a stylish little get-up-and-go that'd be a great addition to any driveway. Of the heated seats I said to Marc, as my ass was being lovingly caressed by the supple leather, "It's like peeing yourself, without all the post-pee discomfort and embarrassment." We joked about the idea of them malfunctioning and what might be the result: Burnt ass.

.....Well, it seems that fiction has become reality. In a story reported by North Country Press, a paraplegic man is suing Chrysler over the malfunctioning of the heated seats in his 2004 Jeep Liberty. Apparently, Matt Beller, of Klamath Falls, who filed the suit this week in U.S. District Court in Eugene, said he was in his 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee when the temperature of the driver's seat climbed to more than 150 degrees last Feb. 20. Beller says he has no feeling below his chest because of military injuries and said he did not know he had been burned until the next day.

.....Two things.

.....First, if he's a paraplegic why on earth does he have heated seats? He doesn't need them, it's a luxury upgrade that costs quite a bit, and I'm sure research will be done that will result in millions of men worrying about motility of their little soldiers due to their daily-drive-slash-dry-boiling of their family jewels. Seriously though, it's not like Beller's ass is experiencing any discomfort from the cold leather. The man has no feeling in his ass.

.....Secondly, even if you couldn't feel your ass burning, wouldn't you be curious of where the delicious aroma of cooked ham was emanating from?

Some of you might think this is a little cruel of me, but don't tell me you don't see the humor. If you can't, git the fack outta here.

I really didnt need to see Will Smith's ass...

I, Robot

Will Smith as a robot hating cop? Loved the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and since the progression of a male child’s preference is as follows: 2-5 Candy 5-7 Ninjas and Robots 7-13 Video Games 13+ Females, I bit the bullet and rented I, Robot from my local Blockbuster franchise.

This movie is an incredibly stylized portrayal of the future and the storytelling is clear and concise. The visual depictions of the robots is frighteningly believable and in no way over done. What makes them freaky is their almost-but-not-quite human translucent faces. The “dream” motif laid out herein is provocative, even though it’s been done to death. Will Smith’s acting is bearable, I mean that. It’s tough to pull off a wise-cracking cop with a chip on his shoulder these days. It’s hardly ever done! (I really started with no intention of being sarcastic, then I realized I was going against my natural tendency on that one.) Seriously though, I enjoyed Will’s performance here. With lines like, “Look, I understand you’ve experienced a loss, but this relationship just can’t work. You’re a cat, I’m black, and I’m not going to be hurt again.” How can you not laugh? I do, as always, have some qualms about this particular movie though.

I don’t usually have problems with product placement in movies; it’s all a part of the moving going experience. And anyway, advertising is fucking everywhere these days. The problem that I have is not the product placement; it’s the world that those responsible for the screenplay, Jeff Vintar and Akiva Godsman, along with director Alex Proyas create. While this is the future it is a specific future. It is the future that has progressed from our present. How do I know this? Well, lets see: Will’s car is an Audi, he wears “vintage” Converse All-Star hightops, and one of the delivery robots seen in the beginning of the movie is branded with a FedEx label. Good enough? No? Fuck you then..

Since I, Robot is the screenwriter’s and director’s vision of our future why the FUCK do they give their character, Dr. Alfred Lanning, credit for Isaac Asimov's three laws of robotics which are given in text prefacing the first scene of the movie and following the opening credits? Anyone who reads science-fiction knows that these laws of robotics were the brain-child of author and visionary Isaac Asimov. The problem I have here isn’t a plot problem; it’s more of a respect issue. Those three fuckers stole Asimov’s work. How hard could it have been to say that Dr. Lanning read Asimov as a child and built his work around it? How mother fucking hard could that be? Assholes. Oh, one more thing. If you stick around and watch the credits they say, “suggested by Isaac Asimov’s book” Those cock suckers couldn’t even say it was inspired, or which book! Assholes³. (Yes, cubed)

Another problem that I have with I, Robot is one particular scene near the end involving Susan Calvin. Near the beginning of the movie Dr. Calvin states that her “general fields are advanced robotics and psychiatry. Although, I specialize in hardware-to-wetware interfaces in an effort to advance U.S.R.’s robotic anthropomorphization program… I make the robots seem more human”, near the end of the movie when Spoon (Smith) and Calvin (Moynahan) need to get into the U.S.R. building where Calvin works, she knows where there are access tunnels into the building that aren’t under surveillance. Uhhh… how the shit is a nerdy bitch like Susan Calvin gonna know where there are “hidden” access tubes? And come on guys, why didn’t you at LEAST make the hidden tunnel some where else, not at the bottom of the front steps of the U.S.R. building? That’s just retarded.

The final few thoughts I’d like to say are a bit of a spoiler. So, if you haven’t seen this movie and want to without knowing the ending, then don’t read the next paragraph. (highlight w/ mouse to read)

It’s not really a complaint; it’s more of something interesting to think about. So yea, by now you know that it isn’t the robots that are the “bad guys”. The bad guy turns out to be a bad computer program known as V.I.K.I. (Virtual Interactive Kinetic Intelligence), who, programmed with a female voice is also responsible for the U.S.R. building as well as the infrastructures of Chicago in 2035. While having this disembodied female voice as the villain of this movie by giving her the notion that humans are a threat to themselves is political and clever, sort of like how there used to be a lot of “green” ethics in the movies of the 90’s, it is also makes this movie a bit dated. Why does it have to be a woman’s voice? All the robots were given male personalities, why did the “real” bad guy have to be a woman? Not that I’m a feminist or anything ridiculous like that, it was just too there for me.

Something else to think about is this idea that there are no more master texts. In my Contemporary Literature course we talked about the facets of Postmodernism. Even though postmodernism is a bullshit throw-away term that literati like to throw around because their weanies aren’t as big as mine, I still had to learn about it and now you do too, fuckers. Postmoderism, in the most simplistic of understandings of it, is the period in literature (film and art as well, but since I know fuck all about art, and jack shit about cinema let’s just say literature) that comes about AFTER MODERNISM. (hahaha... you'll never get those seconds of your life back)

A more complex understanding would have to talk about those things specific to Postmodernism, which, in actuality, are stylistic choices, narrative structures, and a whole bowl of other shit that can be found in various periods of literature which are taken as mish-mashed into postmodern stories. So, essentially, if someone asks you “Hey man, what’s Postmodernism?” you can affectively, and without hesitiation, in the greatest of confidence say, “A whole bunch of shit stolen from other periods of literature and human history used to create something new.” Or you could say, “historical plaid.” That works too. Anyway, back to the master texts.

Master texts are essentially the stories used to tell other stories. These Master Texts are the text that writers sometimes use as an outline for their stories. An analogy might help. Think about a colouring book with the black outlines depicting a rose, some grass, and the sky. A Master Text would be akin to the colouring book page being coloured thus: Rose – Red bloom, green stem. Grass – Green. Sky – Blue. A writer working with a Master Text would colour the shit completely different. So, to recapitulate for all you fuckers that are still reading this shit, Master Texts are the outlines for stories, the basic gist, the plot structure.

Well, when Spoon and Dr. Calvin are in Dr. Lanning’s office/lab Spoon and Dr. Calvin have an exchange.

Spoon: Yeah, I know, the three laws. Your perfect circle of protection.
Calvin: A robot cannot harm a human being. The First Law of Robotics.
S: Yeah, I know. I’ve seen your commercials. But doesn’t the Second Law state that a robot has to obey any order given by a human being. What if it was given an order to kill.
C: Impossible. It would conflict with the First Law.
S: Right. But the Third Law states that a robot can defend itself.
C: Yes, but only when that action does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.
S: Well, you know what they say. Laws are made to be broken.
C: No, not these Laws. They’re hardwired into every robot. A robot can no more commit murder than a human could walk on water.
S: Well you know there was this one guy a long time ago…

The main robot, the “unique” one that gets the name Sonny, is this robot that is capable of choosing to follow Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics or not. Man, another variation of the Jesus story. Who says the master texts are no longer in use. You just have to look, you blind fucks.

I highly recommend this movie for anyone whole likes science fiction movies. It’s fun, fast paced, with few plot holes. There’s are some funny parts, and very few corny lines. (Depending on who you are, that might not be a good thing)

8/10

Quick Quibbles:

• What was the purpose of the Farber character, that kid who throws Spoon the basketball in the beginning of the movie? We see that fucker again, but the relationship between Spoon and Farber is never explained. There are cases when leaving it to the imagination of the movie goer is a good thing, this isn't one of them. It comes off as Michael Jacksonesque. Maybe that's just me. Probably.
  

• I didn't need to see Will Smith's ass. Thanks.