Opposites A Tracked

See what I did there? Just a bit of wordplay, for all you lexo-junkies. I know (sic hallucinate) you're out there, searching for blog posts with avant-titles so that you can sign the authors up for your hot new e-magazine Alphabit. Well, I'm not going to let my friend Chris be the only one you hire. I'll make jokes with any letter of the alphabet you tell me to. Yeah, I'll do a K joke. Why not? I'm a rebel, and I'm willing to put my image on the line for an opportunity with your publication.

I do nudity, too.

I get all mascoty when I'm nude.

Tonight was either the apex of my life or the antapex (what a word! *cough*) I know I introed with the same kind of set-up last night, mentioning I was both depressed and elated, but this time I'm for real. Last time, I was only kind of real, like a dog ghost. I was also kind of hissy, creating a voice for the soul purpose of "hating on" (I can be urban, too) television bloggers. So I guess I was more of a cat ghost. But now that I'm fully apparated, I can separate myself from last night's vendettas and move on with an honest desire to communicate my new divergent realities.

By the way, I maintain that V for Vendetta is the greatest love story of our movie generation. Unless you're a hot girl and you didn't like it. Cuz then it sucked. What do you like? (note my charisma)

And thus we reach the topic d'noche (how cosmopolitan!) - hot girls. Tonight I called in to a TomGreen.com show entitled "Girl Talk." The format is a bit complex but I'll try to summarize. 4 hot girls hang around Tom Green's LA house, drink, eat bagels, and take calls. It's confusing, I know, and I'm sure you have questions, so I'll answer them in turn. Umm...guy in the red shirt:

Guy in the Red Shirt
I was wondering why you - a seemingly well-adjusted young man with a college education - would call in to such a show?

An excellent question, and this is where I become uncertain on the current extremity, good or bad, of my life. One explanation I've theorized is that I'm still somewhat drawn into the whole Hollywood scene. I hate so much of it, and my people told me I had to get out before I became the next River Phoenix; nevertheless, there are hot girls there. And when I see them in real life I molt, so I need to call in to their shows instead. Additionally, I love the thought that I called Tom Green's house tonight. By no means does this compare to the aforementioned Chris's pubescent call to Alex Mack's house, but it's still a fun piece of kitsche. Umm... guy in the green shirt:

Guy in the Green Shirt
What exactly did you talk about when you were on the show?

I actually got to chat for about 5 minutes, as I was in the super-minority of callers that didn't call in only to scream a profanity. I asked them why they thought Angelina Jolie was hot, which led to a brief look at Kirsten Dunst's attractiveness, which unrelatedly led to video game talk, and so on. I wasn't very witty, as it's difficult talking on the phone to 4 tipsy girls who aren't really paying attention and are also hot. Also, to those of you who don't know me, my voice kind of resembles the sound effect heard when Link opens a treasure chest, so that made things hard, too. Umm... guy in the green shirt who is wearing pants:

Guy in the Green Shirt who is wearing pants
Do you happen to have a transcript of the conversation your friend Chris once had with Larisa Oleynik?

You're referring of course to the actress who played Alex Mack. Unfortunately I do not have what you desire; however, I do have a proposed transcript of how a phone conversation between those two would unfold in the modern day. Read:

Chris: Hey, uhh...
Alex Mack: Yes?
Chris: Uhhh, is this Larisa?
Alex Mack: Who is this?
Chris: Uhh, I just want you to know that I live with my girlfriend now so I don't think I should be stalking you anymore.
Alex Mack: You found my number and called in the middle of the night to tell me that?
Chris: Oh my god were you asleep? I'm sorry. Go back to bed.

Chris, you fool. Thanks for making me feel better about my lack of phone prowess, even if your quoted conversation is only hypothetical. I think we have time for one more question. Umm... guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys:

Guy who's painting mustard mustaches on those other guys
I believe earlier in your post you were making parenthetical notes to hint at the qualities you'd bring to a word-based magazine. What ever happened to that bit?

A revealing question, but an acceptable one. I actually joined the staff of Phontastic! about midway through the post, but when I mentioned I'd talked to hot girls things got complicated. My fellow editors argued that hot girls are the greatest enemy a man of words can have. Their beauty outshines even the glossiest dictionary, and a single look from their eyes can steal syllables straight from the mouths of men who would otherwise be great. The editors have a point, I concede, but I left anyway. I just can't stop talking to hot girls. So now I work for the gun magazine You're Dead instead.

Unless you're a hot girl and you don't like that, I mean.

According to research, hot girls might wear something like this.

Analys Is (The Xtreme post)

I am oscillating right now between depression and elation. You will discover why in the following post.

Lissy65 has signed on. Hi, Lissy here. Thanks for joining us. I'm doing the minute-by-minute report for Harry's post tonight. He started off with two sentences, explaining his current state of mind. Let's see where he goes.

Bad news first I guess, or so my doctor suggests. Unfortunately, the good news after my check-up today was, "There's a KerPlunk marble in your liver." That was actually the bad news, too, but I'm glad I can finally start up my KerPlunk tournaments again. So-called friends had suggested I just buy normal marbles to replace the lost, but the roundness of Milton Bradley's balls really is irreplaceable.

To make my KerPlunk paragraph funnier, read it in the style of Woody Allen.

Lissy65: Harry's making a reference to KerPlunk. I think it's a game or something.

Anyway, I'm a bit depressed because of what I experienced viewing-wise tonight. At first I watched some decent baseball(which no one wants to read about); however, I then made the poor choice of watching Tom Green's internet show. This is no fault of Mr. Green, nor of the guests I tuned in to check out (G4's Kevin Perreira and Olivia Munn), but rather of some killjoy skater Tom let hang around. "Jeremy" seemed to forget that alternative sports personalities are supposed to be Xtreme. Instead he just whined and moaned about how much everything "sucks." Such action may be considered superlative, or "extreme," in a negative sense, but to be Xtreme with a capital X and missing E you have to do something like this:

1. Open up a MySpace account.
2. Post a picture of yourself dying your hair while getting a tattoo.
3. Put up a background with skulls on it.
4. Have a Sum 41 song play on the page. I'm pretty sure they're still hip.

Lissy65: I'm back. Harry's typing about Xtreme things now. I think he's trying to be funny.

I'm becoming more and more depressed as I post. I'm working on creating the MySpace profile detailed above, but the service bullied me into typing a 10-character verification code multiple times on account of unsatisfactory passwords. First I had no number; then the password was too similar to my name; then I didn't have enough letters. Eventually I just got totally Xtreme and typed "F***This1", which was accepted. But at what cost? I only achieved in proving that Jeremy's negative extremity really is Xtreme.

Lissy65: Harry just told a MySpace anecdote.
This is my last comment, as I am actually a bot created to satirize Emmy bloggers, and TV bloggers in general, who do nothing but restate exactly what they see. The Daily Show is never less funny than it is when rehashed on TVSquad. Inaneness realized. Program terminated.
Lissy65 has exploded.

And now I've reached the absolute pit of depression. I just requested that DeadCandy be my friend and she rejected me. She called me a poser and said she'd seen more Xtreme profiles on eHarmony.com. I can't take this. I need a friend fast to get me out of this night alive...




Yes! CompInstaller just accepted me. He seems like a really nice guy. He has two daughters (7 and 4). He administrates the network at a paper outlet in Nebraska (Go Cornhuskers!) And he's really thinking about purchasing an HDTV. F Xtremity. This is my kind of people. Finally, after a long night of nothing, I can relax in an aura of...

Elation.

****************************

Edit: DeadCandy just accepted me and said she was totally kidding before. That rocks. Sorry CompInstaller, but I've got some videos of me smashing vending machines to upload.

XTREME

Sponsor my Funeral

Sinking into one of my more contemplative moods today, I imagined what it would be like to have a friend who is a scientist. I know some "actuarial scientists" out there will argue that, rhetorically, they are both my friends and scientists. However, my definition of scientist requires that said person work with test tubes 90% of the time. 'Tis a simple definition, as derived from the "It's what they're always doing in the pictures on those grade school worksheets" method. Unconvinced? Ask yourself: Have you ever seen a doctor without a stethoscope? Have you ever seen a clown not juggling? Have you ever seen a dog not grow healthy bones after eating a delicious bowl of Alpo(TM)? I highly doubt it all. If you answered "yes" to any of these questions, you must exist in a slightly alternate dimension, and I will resist shaking your hand in the future out of the fear you'll pull me in there.

Speaking of the future, this sentence exists, relative to your reading, in the future of the previous.

Speaking of the future in terms of non-meaningless observations, I also contemplated today the arrangement of my funeral. If I died in the near future, how would the people I want to attend my "Rockin' Dead Year's Eve" party get the invite? Yes, Dick Clark would come to complain about my posthumous misuse of his television event title; and yes, my parents could probably contact a majority of my Wisconsin friends; but what about the rest? What about all of my Los Angeles friends? I don't think my extra role on Quintuplets (look for me in episode 103 under the Fox logo) warrants me an IMDB news alert, so my pal Topher Grace will miss the message. And Stan Lee hasn't talked to me since I pointed out some missing pixels on Wolverine's right index claw in X-Men Legends II, so I doubt he'll even care if I want him there.

Stan and me during the best of times, when we were friends and I was Mexican.

And what about that kid I'm hiding from everyone? She's going to be 3 this November, and her name is Chandyce, as presented by Dentyne Ice. I don't want her growing up with the guilt of having missed her father's funeral. Nor do I want her growing up with the relief that her kidnapper is dead. (I never specified why I was hiding her.)

Sigh. Dying is going to be an organizational nightmare. Unless... Yes! That's it! I'll hire strippers for the event so that everyone shows up! I'll hire policewoman strippers! And firemen strippers! And poodle strippers! Every man, woman, and beast in earshot will rush to the raging techno beat of my final farewell, as my ashes are tossed out over the river I've travelled so much in my dreams - China's mighty Yangtze.

I'm so glad this problem is solved. Now I can relax and peruse some BBC News...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

HiberNation

If I were a bear running for office, I would definitely call my campaign HiberNation.

My fortnight of absence, although disappointing*, has not been without event. I've heard and seen things that''ll turn your hair red and your eyes a soft shade of fuschia, and I'm not even referring to a hipster concert. I'm talking big things. End of the universe things. Cats and dogs, living together... oh you get the reference. How very postmodern of me.
(*to few).

THINGS I'VE HEARD

1. John Madden's aristocracy.
As my channel-flipping fingers lingered on a preseason football game, obviously embalmed in a passing dextral coma, I heard John Madden give his opinion. The debate at hand was whether or not there should be a shorter preseason, so as to cut down on the number of meaningless weeks and unnecessary injuries. John stated he favors the status quo of more exhibiton match-ups, because "you'd have to pay the players more if you had more regular season games." An interesting point by a multimillionaire, especially given that players, as far as I know, are not contracted by the week.

2. Alan Thieke.
My mom and I drove my sister to college in Ohio this week, and at some point we decided to eat. How very traditional of us. Whilst eating, I swore I heard Alan Thieke talking at a table somewhere behind me, so I threw this observation into my own table's conversation. Usually when I offer such remarks I'm rebuffed with a pause and an attack on my sanity, but this time my mom concurred. "Yes. I heard that, too." The obvious conclusion is: Alan Thieke sat somewhere near me and was talking. That puts me one degree away from Kirk Cameron, and two degrees away from God.


3. Birds.
I can't really remember hearing any birds over the revving of my Mario Kart DS engines, but I must have heard some. Maybe a robin? By the way: What do you call a bird from Vienna who has lots of money? An Aust-rich!

THINGS I'VE SEEN

1. Mandalorians.
If you know who Mandalorians are, you are a super-nerd and are welcome to attend my "Jar-Jar Sundays" brunches. Lately it's just been me and Professor Panda Bear, so your presence would be more than welcome. (I don't know how much more I can stand listening to the prof talk about his ex-wife. Ugh. I get it. Melony was a "bamboo whore." Move on.)


Oh, and this point actually refers to my complete indulgement in Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic over the last two weeks. A great game. Play it. And may the force be with you. (Topical!)

2. More video games.
I can't believe I'm yet to blog about G-Phoria, G4's video game awards. I swear I will, right after I finish a few games of Crossbow on my Atari 7800. (Topical!)

Two paths diverged in a retro game. I chose the one less monsterful.

3. Guarded borders.
My friend Daniel moved down to Richmond, Virginia last week, and as nice as he is when he's in Wisconsin, he's an intolerant bobby down South. As I travelled near Ohio's southern border on my aforementioned trip, I noticed Dan driving parallel on the Kentucky side. He swore he'd lynch me if I crossed the line a moment before my summer tan faded into glorious white, so I kept clear. He may be a bobby, but he's also a man of his word. Then again, he also swore he'd knife me if I ever used the term "bobby," and so far as I can tell my body remains blade-free since '93.

4. The future.
I know all you Emmy-lovers are going to soon be blogging about your event parties and the delicious crepes your 35-year old neighbor brought over and the baby pictures Maude showed off during the 9:15 commercial break, but while you all are doing that, I'll be hanging with an age group I'm legally banned from hanging with: teens. I watched a few minutes of the Teen Choice Awards tonight, and I learned all I need to know about awesomeness. Where else can you see Ashley Olsen present an award with Soul Plane show-stealer Snoop Dogg? Where else can you see a jelly-filled Britney introduce the world-premiere performance of her husband K-Fed's newest rad beats? My eyes were loving it; however, due to some bloodcurdling screams when Johnny Depp appeared onstage, my ears were not.

And that's why I can never write about the THINGS I'VE HEARD again. A tragic ending, in the vein of Shakespeare himself. How very Victorian of me.

Shakespeare Federline? Or creepiest photoshop ever?

I Like Candy

Sugar makes my teeth hurt a bit nowadays, but the memories are worth it. I once bought rock candy in Mark Twain's hometown of Hannibal, Missouri. And I once ate a lemon drop I found stuck to the Washington Monument. Both were glorious, unforgetful events, even though the second one was fictional.

I'm just passing by to share with you an article I found in the Mansfield Post-Gazette-Picayune this week. It concerns me, and it concerns the past. It doesn't concern candy. Enjoy, or as I now say (as of now), "Educate yourself."

**********************************

"Boy for Sale?" By Rick Delaney

Thursday night, Harry B., 23, of Brookfield, Wisconsin (whose grandfather was a coalminer), went to bed with the self-satisfaction of a man confident he'd written a blog entry racy enough for the "Most Controversial Post" Bloggy award. He was certain his brain would rest in the comfortable knowledge of future trivial ceremony. However, as Harry drifted into sleep, his arrogant predictions began to prove themselves faulty, for his brain decided its greatest rest would be achieved through no rest at all.

In the first known case of brain-vacation, Harry's brain actually lifted itself out of its headslot and pleasured itself in a variety of activities. Witnesses, which include Harry's cats Starlight and Midnight, say the brain made little mention of why it was leaving for the night, though each theorized on the reasoning. Starlight proffered the possibility that the brain was "sick of thinking about 'important issues' like race and international relations. It didn't want to deal with Harry's human desire for meaning any more. In fact, it didn't believe Harry and his conversation partners understood the purpose of their brains. Brains exist to facilitate the survival and enjoyment of life, which they achieve quite nicely in us felines. Brains do not exist to trouble themselves with the follies of others - follies which are often entirely unreasonable and unresolvable anyway given the current state of humanity." Midnight, on the other hand, supplied the following statement: "Mew."

To the best of our knowledge, the first leisure in which the brain partook was voting. Perhaps entertained by the irony of voting for something with no potential for violent fallout, the brain headed over to G-Phoria to vote for G4's annual video game awards. A significant amount of time was spent at the site, suggesting that even though the brain was having fun, it was having fun by sincerely thinking about its vote. We at the newspaper do not suggest you vote in this election unless you are willing to think about your vote equally hard. We at the newspaper also deny that we make this suggestion only to keep you from affecting results on which we've gambled our entire publication. By the way, enjoy our special issues next week, which will either focus on our new gold-plated paper or our insider-reporting on robbery.

Providing a nice segue, Harry's brain then headed out to local neighbors' houses to gather any attractive property it found unguarded. The brain must have realized that it was National Night Out, a night on which families and police celebrate their community's safety by gathering in one place and leaving the rest of the city an anarchic free-for-all. The brain is said to have scored an XBox 360 (possibly for more voting research), two toaster-ovens, and a birdcage filled with money.


With the night coming closer to its close, Sir Brain (as it chose to recreationally appoint itself), quickly put some notes together for the hidden instrumental track on The Silent Explosion's forthcoming album The Devil Rounds Down. Witnesses again included just Starlight and Midnight, with Starlight saying the record sounded "as rocking as anyone would expect from the dark lord's newest melodists" and Midnight purring softly. The Post-Gazzette-Picayune will feature exclusive inserts on this young band's rise to the top, in addition to its subsequent fall, in future issues.

As the sun rose over the tiding sea, the brain returned to its proper place, where it was heard to whit these parting lines: "I have had my fun. Now I shall hope that Harry has his."

When asked about the event, Harry had this to say: "That, like, totally blows my mind. It's like my brain is a Furby or something." Apparently, Harry remembers nothing from the night except a dream his brain had placed on loop.

In the dream, Harry existed as a Wolverine-like mutant who used his powers to do nothing, but instead revived a theatrical version of Snow White. Profits from the performance were meant to support the underpriveleged theme park workers who were acting in the play; however, on opening night a robotic motorcycle attacked the star of the show and ripped up his patented Zenedine (Zizou) Zidane jersey. Harry chased the robot, actually putting his Wolverine powers to use briefly, but it was too late as the jersey had already been ripped to shreds. A fat Italian guy gathered the pieces of fabric and held them up dramatically. Seeing this, the actors gathered around the Italian and the relic and marched back into the theater, where the audience was still waiting four hours after the announced start time. "Zizou! Zizou! Zizou!" the congregation chanted, and everyone applauded, clapped, and cried.

- RD

"It's like my brain is a Furby or something."

Q-R-S-T-Jew-V

I'm telling you: They sneak themselves into everything. Even the alphabet.

But enough anti-Semitism. Even though it's totally in right now, due to Israel's invasions and Mel Gibson's tirades, it's only in for 1 or 2 jokes a night. I need to spread this out to fall, when all the big designers release next season's trends. I'm hoping to blaspheme some kind of Oriental race, but I know the hot topic's going to be Mexicans again, given congressional elections. Ugh. That was so spring. At least I can always count on Leno for a hilarious Arabic turban joke. They wear towels on their heads! Ha! I get it! They're so different!

If you can't tell, I'm trying to be satirical. In real life I don't mock entire races. I only mock members of races in specific towns, e.g. blacks in Brown Deer, Wisconsin. And I don't as much mock them as I do hate them. Stop walking across the middle of high-speed roads! It doesn't matter what time of the day I'm driving through Brown Deer, there's always a black man waiting on the side of the street until my car gets close so that he can start walking in front of me at a non-intersection. This has happened at least 5 times, which is more than enough to support a stereotype. I honked at "one of them" today, trying to give him a scare, but of course the liberal blogosphere has already attacked me by pointing out that there actually was a walkpath for this man. The one time I make a mistake and everyone wants to jump on me for it. Please, I'm trying to secure the roads for all drivers of all races. My aggressive gesture was necessary, and although it misfired upon an innocent, it does not in any way suggest I should stop honking. Besides, that "innocent" guy was black, and they're not as good as us.

Satire alert again! Phew. Writing satire is like eating a thick gouda. It really starts to weigh heavy inside of you and make you feel gassy. I'm sure you readers feel somewhat similarly on your end, so here's a glass of absurd skit to wash it all down with:

Hardware Store

Scene 1

BOB (to clerk): I'm looking at a couple of those ladders up there. I really like the length of the first one, but I'm also attracted to the color of the second.
CLERK: Well, which do you prefer? The former or the latter?
BOB: I already told you I wanted a ladder!

Scene 2

BOB: I don't think I want this toilet anymore.
CLERK: What? You were just about to buy it!
BOB: Yeah, but that was a couple of minutes ago.
CLERK: What's changed since then?
BOB: All the urine in my bladder evaporated. Now I don't need a toilet anymore!

Scene 3

BOB: My mom once told me that comedians either go to heaven or kill their wives. Which do you think it is?
CLERK: I don't really see why the choice is only between those two fates, but I'd like to believe the first option.
BOB: Then why do you keep trying to sell me the ladder!

Climbing the Hollywood latter.

I hope you enjoyed that brief passage of levity, for I would like to end in memoriam today. I've written an elegy for E3 (the electronic entertainment expo), which has recently been dissolved. Best wishes to you all in these difficult times, and mozzeltoff.

Oh E3; you were a part of me.
I was like a chip inside your huge robotic brain.
What you taught, I learned,
Through your robotic circulatory system.

Now.
Rhyme.

I learned about Guitar Hero 2, upon your hallowed floors.
I learned the PS3 would cost me more than 40 whores.
I learned that Spore would let me be the king of my own world.
I learned I had a baby, and I learned it was a girl.

Rest In Pixels.