First of all....

This annoys the shit out of me.  It's a story about Jersey Shore being awarded a shit load of tax payer money to shoot their stupid, mind numbing show.  Now, listen, I have absolutely no problem with people being drunk and stupid, if I did the guy in the mirror and I would be constantly at war.  What I have a problem with is people who have no business being famous from the get-go.
"The Situation" is a seriously over-blown situation in-and-of-himself.  First off, what the fuck is wrong with his chest?  Apparently, there's something constantly on fire right there, because he can't ever have a shirt covering it.  Every single shot has him holding the clothing away from him.  I'm not exactly sure who told him to take his shirt off, I just know that the invisible person seems to be everywhere he is, since I can't find a single shot of him without him grinning like he has down syndrome with his shirt hiked up like anyone gives half a fuck who the hell he is, or what he has under his wife beater (and in his case, yes, it is a wife beater.  I lived in Jersey long enough, and knew enough Italians to say - Mike Mr Situation will smack the shit out of his women, because he doesn't have the manly organs to keep them without violence).
But that's beside the point.
Who the hell is Snooki?  And why do I know who she is?
Furthermore, who the fuck is Kim Kardashian, and why in the name of the sweet little innocent baby Jesus should I give one shit in twenty million who, how, or what she's fucking?
These are not real people, they're caricatures of people.  They're manikins.  They exist solely for our sick, twisted fascination with them.  They are not real, like the Barbie Doll is not real.  They fornicate like people, they marry like people, they even walk and talk like human beings, but they are not people.  They are brands, and they cultivate this.
I say this, partly because of a new recognition of what it should mean to be "famous."  But partly because I'm sick of seeing no talent fucks all over the tabloids.
Remember when Music TeleVision played music?  Remember when Disney was for kids?  Remember when sex was an adult pastime, and not a Nickelodeon selling point?  Remember when having eight ten-year-old's sing for sixty hours a week was slave labor?
I do.
But today it's just good television. 
It's just good marketing.
It's just good business.
It's the whole shitty business.  I've turned on my TV for three weeks in the last six months.  Seriously, I just turned it back on, and in three weeks I have had six years worth of Christmas requests.  Every single commercial is a must have.  My boy has no idea anymore what to do with himself with the TV turned off.
"Well, until I can watch TV, what do I do?"
"What did you do before we had TV?"
"Play."
"There ya go."
"But, am I allowed to watch TV yet?"
"No."
"I'm calling the police."
"Thankfully, they haven't legislated television rights yet, so I'm totally within my legal rights to not let you watch TV."
I wonder what the Situation would have to say on the subject.
First, he'd probably take off his shirt (if he was wearing one in the first place).  Then he'd drink all my liquor.  Then he'd explain that New Jersey has the greatest beaches in the world.  And then I'd kick his faggot ass out, and go to the bar, and hang with real people, in Havasu, a place that can and will piss all over the Jersey Shore every chance it gets.
Because we're real.  We work.  We have kids.  We (in our case) are fighting to get recognized.  And we're not real sympathetic to a bunch of over-privileged cunts who don't deserve a free drink, let alone twenty-four hour news coverage....

He Was Alive...

So I just stumbled onto this article about a weatherman who woke up next to a dead man. According to the article, the weatherman showed up at a friend's house with another friend, proceeded to ingest large amounts of alcohol and illegal narcotics (the witness says he doesn't know exactly what they were taking, but they were snorting it, which isn't a good sign) and then got in the hot tub. Everyone had a grand old time, and passed out, the weatherman and his friend in the hot tub (in the bathroom) and the homeowner on the couch. When the homeowner awoke Tuesday morning, he found the two men still asleep in the hot tub. Correction: the weatherman was asleep, but when they tried to wake up the friend they noticed his face was blue (also not a good sign) and he was wearing a dog collar. The weatherman, now totally fucking freaked, decided to leave the bathroom and vomit in the living room (not very considerate). He then left (for no apparent reason) and came back later to give his statement to police.
 Now, let's all be honest here: Haven't we all had a night like this at least once? You know, you pick up a friend, go over to someone's house, snort a few rails, hit the hot tub, have a few drinks, pass out, and wake up next to a dead body.
 This shit happens.
 It doesn't happen to you?
 Not even in college?
 Oh, shit, you're not very adventurous are you?
 Anyway, I feel for the guy. Not the dead one, but the weatherman. I don't feel for the dead guy because he passed out in a hot tub with a dog collar on. Did he really expect that to end well? I'm not a psychiatrist, but if you've read our previous posts you'll see I'm not a big apologist for people who are asking for it. And if you pass out next to a fucking weatherman with a dog collar on you don't have a great deal of self-esteem, in fact, if you're fucking a weatherman at all you don't, so this guy probably isn't all that sad about getting himself axed. But the weatherman, I mean, shit, poor fucking guy. He's been outed to the whole world in like the worst possible way. Imagine going to work the next day:
 "Hey Bill."
 "John."
 "How was your Monday night?"
 "Um...."
 "Guy's, check out this article about a guy that died this morning. They found him in a hot tub with a dog collar on!"
 "About that..."
 "And he was fucking a weatherman!"
 "Who fucks a weatherman?"
 Then they both get to the same part at the same time. The part where they identify the weatherman. And their eyes slowly settle on this doomed weatherman, standing in front of them. And he looks at the floor and just says "I guess I'll just go clean out my desk."
 I mean, that's not something you bounce back from. I read an article last night about how Monica Lewinsky still isn't able to go to a decent restaurant without being made fun of. And all she did was give the President head, which, honestly, isn't that big of a deal. She was young, he was the leader of the free world, it sounds like the set-up to a bad joke...
 Oh yeah, sorry Monica. 
So this guy is forever the gay weatherman that killed his lover with a dog collar. You might as well tattoo that shit on his forehead. He won't be working for CNN any time soon. I doubt Fox is interested. Hell, even MSNBC has standards. No, this guy is just as dead as the dude with the dog collar. The only difference is the dead guy's name hasn't been released.
So here's my forecast for this weatherman: 100% chance of it raining shit on you for the next twenty years...

Sex Sells, and a Rant About Ugly People

Let's start with the ugly people, because this is something I know a thing or two about. Why are you all chuckling? No, I'm not fucking ugly, thank you very much. I happen to be pretty attractive, if you're into short, unsuccessful single dad's with an illegitimate child and more bills than income....
Right.
So, ugly people. What brought this to my attention (the apparent plague of ugliness, and no I'm not talking about Lady Gaga) was this article by the New York Times that makes the case that we should protect the ugly from discrimination under the Americans With Disabilities Act. It's not their fault, they were "Born This Way" (okay, this time I am talking about Lady Gaga).
This is by far the most idiotic thing to come down the pike since obese people were told they were technically disabled, and therefor should not have to walk the extra twenty feet for their Whopper. I mean, really? "Being attractive also helps you earn more money, find a higher-earning spouse (and one who looks better, too!) [sic] and get better deals on mortgages. Each of these facts has been demonstrated over the past 20 years by many economists and other researchers."
Well, there you have it! Fuck paying that lousy six percent on your mortgage! Beautiful people don't have to pay interest, why should you! See, only pretty women ever get jobs. And men, well men: "Beauty is as much an issue for men as for women." Is it really? Okay, maybe it is. Let's do some, really really quick, research. I'm going to list off, in order, the top richest cilebrities of 2011. Read along if you'd like. Ready? Go!
1. Oprah (fat and ugly - in my opinon)
2. U-2 (obviously gay)
3. Tyler Perry (really?)
4. Bon Jovi (annoying, and gay and ugly and anything else I can throw at this Jersey Shore fucking wanna-be)
5. Jerry Bruckheimer (good movies, hideous looking devil)
6. Steven Spielberg (awesome movies, well, used to be. Not bad looking, I guess, but not what I would call "beautiful" either)
7. Elton John (can't hate the guy, sorry)
8. Lady Gaga (no. Fucking NO!! She is NOT attractive! I would fuck nearly anything, and I'd prefer a nice cold corpse to this psychotic whore)
9. Simon Cowell (fine, *shrug* maybe)
(now we come to the good ones)
10. James Patterson (guess how much... just guess. $84 million, this year! I'm sure they figured that in to their statistics)
11. Phil McGraw (really?)
12. Leonardo Dicaprio (okay, gay moment, the guy is fucking cool as shit and can act his ass off)
13. Howard Stern (need I say more?)
and I'm gonna end it there, cuz'n I made my point. Ugly people! Get off your fucking ass's, work, buy some nicer clothes, and get used to the oldest maxim in the book: Money is sexy.
Are we done?
Yes, on that note. Now, the Sex Sells part, which is the other side of the proverbial coin. Money is sexy, but sexy is money. And for some reason, Americans can't admit that to themselves or each other.
Finnean Nilsen Projects first book - Fist Full of Brunettes, written by a drunkard and sex fiend by the name of Bill Pryst, is unarguably literary porn. I'm not blushing, I don't care. What's wrong with that? Why does everyone seem so disgusted?
Are we reaching out to Penthouse to shoot it as a film? Yes.
Are a hundred and twenty pages out of a hundred and eighty sex scenes? Give or take.
And?
So what?
What the hell is so wrong with sex? My sister picks up the book, reads a page and calls me: "What the heck is this?"
"What?"
"This book. Why would you want to be associated with this trash?"
"Um... Why not?"
"It's the most disgusting thing I've ever read. I can't believe, I'm so embarrassed, that my brother would want to read something like this! Would have thoughts like this in his head!"
And I didn't ask what she thought her husband thinks about. I didn't ask how the fuck they conceived their children if she was still a virgin. Why? Because it's not for me to ask such questions. I let her rant, explained that a great many books are just as explicit, and hung up after reminding her she had little say in what I chose to do with my life.
My dad:
"Would you want your grandfather to read this book?"
I thought for a moment. "I don't see why the fuck not. He had seven kids, I think he gets the idea."
And on and on and on!! It's silly. It makes no sense. We can have graphic violence on TV all day, and very little is said. Tonight I can't wait to watch Hobo with a Shotgun, a film I was assured was so full of gore they literally become torrents of blood. Can't fucking wait. But on the same token, I love Spartacus Blood in the Sand. Is there sex? Yes, lots of it, as much as they could pack into an hour program.
And?
Here's the deal: I like sex. Everyone does (whether they admit it or not). Not everyone likes violence. There's a simple way to say this.
Violence is only fun when it's not happening to you.
Sex is only fun when it is happening to you.
So, I guess what I'm saying is, wouldn't it be nice to have a little more sex, and a little less violence?
Now I'm off to watch my ultra-violent movie, and after it I'll pound down a good-old-fashioned adventure story, with plenty of sex on the side. Because I like my violence, but I love my sex...

Your Call is Very Important to Us

First of all, no it's not. I wish I could record one of those for my ringtone when you call me:
"Hello, this is Finn, your call is not very important to me, or I would have answered it already, but if you hold on I'll get to you at my earliest convenience."
I called blockbuster last night because my dvd was scratched to shit and wouldn't play, and what do I get? "We're sorry, all of our agents are currently busy." I'm not going to argue with terming a bunch of minimum wage workers sitting in cubicles "agents" (the woman who helped me was very sweet, and I really liked her as a person) but is there that huge of a demand? At any given moment is there just a rash of fucking people calling to report scratched disks? And I get it that people are stupid, but do you really have to explain to me how to clean a dvd while I'm on hold? Don't you think I tried? Is the average person so dull that they would rather sit on hold for twenty minutes than take out some Windex and wipe the thing off?
Okay that's a Yes on that last question. People are the dumbest animals alive. I knew a tech guy, he told me the average call to him was fixed when he asked them if the computer was plugged in. "Oh, look at that, nope, thanks."
The problem is the answer is No to the others. I'm sure there's a lot of people calling, I'm also sure they could handle the volume if they hired a few more people. Instead, they assume (correctly) that people have just gotten used to waiting on hold when dealing with businesses (no joke, I've had a business call me and put me on hold. *ring* "Hello?" pause, "Hello, all of our representatives are currently busy helping other customers...").
But that's an increasingly large problem in this country. I recently spent two thousand bucks on a service, and the rep I spoke to before I spent the money said "Anytime you have questions, here's my number, just call." Of course, when I call, I get the classic "Your call is very important to us."
What if other things worked like that? What if you called 9-1-1 and said "Someone help! My husband's just been shot!" And the reply was "We're sorry, all of our officers are currently assisting other citizens, please stay on the line and your emergency will be dealt with in the order it was received. While you're waiting, please ensure that this is in fact an emergency. Ask yourself these questions:
1. Are you or someone you know gravely injured?
2. Are you or someone you know in immediate risk of being injured?
3. Are you or someone you know committing a crime, or have you seen someone committing a crime?
4. Is there a white male acting in a suspicious way that you think may be associated with terrorism? If You See Something, Say Something.
5. Is there a fire or flood in your area?
6. If you are calling because you are about to enter a flooded wash, Turn Around Don't Drown.
7. Has your erection lasted over four hours?
8. Did a fast food restaurant not alert you to the fat content in their food?
9. Have you or someone you know ingested a poisonous liquid? Drain-o? Bleach?
For quality control purposes your call may be recorded.
Hello, and thank you for calling 9-1-1, how may I assist you?"
"My husband's bleeding to death!"
"Well, ma'am, just give me a moment and I'll see what I can do to remedy this situation." *tap tap tappedy tap* "Okay, and where are you located ma'am?"
"In Los Angeles."
"Oh, dear, you've called the Oakland office, let me just transfer you to the Los Angeles office."
"But..."
"Thank you for calling 9-1-1, your emergency is very important to us...."
You get the idea. How well do you think that would work out? And then they do ads on there, like the phone company does:
"Did you know that 9-1-1 is now digital? Just one of the ways we're working for you."
Or:
"Do you have more than twelve emergencies a month? Ask your representative for frequent fall discounts, elusively through 9-1-1."
All I'm saying is, for Blockbuster: Put a box on your website, where the customer can type in the number on the disk and say it's damaged, or put a button on the kiosk "Return Damaged Disk" and I'll punch it and put the fucking thing in and be done with it. I don't want my lovely "agent" from last night to lose her job, but it would be far more effective. Or, you go the web chat way, where you can have one person helping five customers simultaneously. But don't tell me my call is important to you if you're not going to answer it. Because it pisses me off.
And for the rest of us: fuck renting movies, go out and buy a good book, like Fist Full of Brunettes and put your feet up, turn off the phone, tell the kids to make their own damn dinner, and enjoy yourself. Because nowadays we need something we can hold on to, something tangible that won't crash, like a good old fashion book.
And, of course, your readership is very important to us...

Religion and Politics, Gooney...

..stay the fuck away from them.
I know, I know.
But this is way beyond politics. It is a story about how NASA now believes we need to curb our greenhouse emissions to protect us from aliens who might see all of this pollution, and realize we’re advanced and therefore a threat.
I shit you not.
I can’t make stuff like this up. I wish I could. I wish I got paid to sit around with a vile of acid the size of a mayonnaise jar and talk to all the other “geniuses” and go “Whoa, dude, like, what if, like, what if aliens see all this pollution and say “Hey, these fucking guys, these guys need to go, because otherwise they’ll get too big and then they’ll be a threat.” Because they didn’t notice us before, right? They didn’t get our SETI signal for the last twenty years, right? They didn’t see our guys traipsing around on the moon, right? They don’t see the confetti-like trash we left all over the place while we were flying to Mars, Saturn, all those places, right? They don’t see the Giant Fucking Telescope floating right out there in the open, with little people in space suits crawling all over it, waving, looking through it in a desperate search to find these same, elusive aliens, RIGHT?
But now, after all this time, we get something that relates to a maybe rational thought. All these years after someone gave these fucking schmucks a hundred billion taxpayer dollars, they finally come out with the theory to end all theories about extra-terrestrial intelligence. And what is this incredible, profound, earth shattering thought?
It’s that no matter what we do to prove our intelligence, they think that aliens think (despite the fact that they’ve revised their numbers and admitted there very well may not BE aliens) that no matter what, the way you judge a civilization’s intelligence, is their own ability to destroy themselves.
I’m going to give you a minute to digest that…

















Are you now as smart now as you were before you read that? Of Fucking Course Not! This is the stupidest thing I’ve seen since Jackass 3-D! And at least those guys know their stupid, these fucking schmucks think this passes for intelligence. The sad thing is, before this article could be written, someone had to actually pose this as a general threat, and then ten other meatheads had to nod and go “Yes, yes, this is certainly a thought worth entertaining” and then they took MY MONEY and paid themselves while they studied it, and then someone had to get paid to type up this revolutionary new thought process.
Let me clue you in on something, Mr. Scientist, and it’s free: We have been making it patently obvious to everything around us that we are a threat to everyone and everything around us since the first fish swam out of the water in the “Garden of Eden” knocked the other fish over the head, fucked his wife, and said “I Am Man.” We haven’t been hiding it! Take that big ass telescope, turn it around, and point it to any spot on this planet, and you’ll see people getting robbed, maimed and murdered.
You know what, hold on…
*click*
My AC is now turned off. We are now officially safe from alien intervention into our self-destructive tendencies. I do it for my fellow man. The rest of you continue to rape and pillage with total impunity, the aliens won’t mind. Someone drop a nuke. I don’t care who you nuke, just fucking nuke someone. The alien’s won’t mind, no big deal. They’ll come down with their little chlorine tester cup and take a bit of our atmosphere and say “No threat here, no need to send Keanu Reeves playing Klaatu, playing Neo, playing Johnny Mnemonic, playing himself (in case you missed it, he plays Klaatu in the movie the Day the Earth Stood Still, in which he is an alien sent to kill humanity for destroying the planet, sound familiar? But, as always, he ends up playing himself) we’re safe.” And then they’ll buzz off to find some other race to kill, and hopefully said race hasn’t had a volcanic eruption any time soon, because a single volcano erupting puts out more CO2 than all the humans have in the history of mankind – combined!
But it’s okay, they missed that. They missed the Crusades (granted, not the best example of human intelligence), they missed the space race, they missed the whole Little Boy and Fat Man deal, you know that little RC car driving around on Mars? skipped it, but now they’re going to get pissed because of your car. Wait, scratch that, they won’t, my air conditioner is still turned off…
*click*
Now they’ll be pissed…

"Doing Something He Loved..."

So I read an article about a quadriplegic that died skydiving last week. He died when he hit the ground at a hundred and twenty miles an hour after his reserve parachute failed to go off and BAM! he was done. But I don’t really want to talk about the specifics of that case, because they’re funny enough as it is.
No.
I want to talk about the fact that his friends said he “died doing something he loved.”
Really? He loved hitting the ground at a hundred and twenty miles an hour?
Why don’t they ever say that about junkies that overdose? (By the way, there is no “overdosing.” Seeing as there’s no legitimate “dose” of heroin or cocaine or meth, every dose is an overdose.) Or when a lazy bastard dies in his sleep? Why is it that when David Carradine was found with his belt around his neck and his shriveled dick in his hand, no one sighed and said: “Well, he died doing something he loved”?
Yet, every time some wack-job environmentalist gets mauled by a tiger we have to hear about how wonderful it is that they died doing something they loved. Correction: he may have loved tigers, but I doubt he enjoyed being eaten by one.
It’s total bullshit. What they mean is “The bastard got what he deserved.” That’s more honest, that’s actually true. When some shmuck decides he’s going to live with bears, or a fucking living torso decides to jump out of a plane, they got what they deserve when the bear finally snaps on them or they hit the ground…

Hmmm....

By the looks of this thing someone got frustrated and walked away from his blog. Childish, if you ask me, but what the fuck can you do?
So now we're back, and we plan on being really, really, fucking dingy. How's that?